No Free Man

by Graham Potts

  Murphy’s eyes were still closed. “Stephen!” She slapped him in the face. “Please, Stephen,” she whimpered. “Stay.”

  The earth rumbled above them and the lights flickered. The elevator shuddered to a stop and Elliot staggered against the cage. She cursed and ripped open the elevator gate. It was dark and she couldn’t see a thing.

  The emergency lights blinked and warmed up, the cavernous shelter glowing dimly beneath her feet. They were level with the catwalk. It was only three metres away. Murphy groaned.

  “Stephen, wake up,” she said urgently. “Please.” She heard the thud of bombs above them and the palace trembled.

  “I’m all right, I’m here,” he murmured.

  “Get up, you sissy. We have to jump.”

  He sat up, wearily studying the catwalk. She helped him stand up, her body quivering with pain. The bombs thundered above them and dust rained from the ceiling. “You go first,” she shouted over the barrage.

  Murphy nodded and blinked, reaching out for the wall to keep his balance. He leaned back before leaping for the catwalk, and he landed feet first on the edge. He threw his leg over the railing and toppled on to the metallic walkway. Elliot jumped, her chest smashing into the handrail. Air rushed from her lungs. She slipped and threw her arms out in desperation.

  Murphy grabbed her by the hand and she grasped on to his arm. She cried out, her muscles aching, her fingers numb, but Murphy pulled her on to the catwalk where she collapsed breathlessly beside him.

  The jets screamed above them and the roof shuddered. More bombs pounded the earth and the elevator crashed to the floor of the shelter, shattering to pieces. The dam wall started to crack and the small streams of water turned into a torrent.

  Murphy climbed to his knees and wiped blood from his forehead while Elliot tried to steady him. They limped towards the wall, the catwalk rattling beneath them, the support struts screeching under their weight. Murphy stumbled and fell, clattering on to the walkway and taking Elliot down with him.

  “No!” Elliot cried. She reached under his arms and heaved with all she had left, gritting her teeth and straining her muscles. The water roared beneath them, pouring into the shelter, and stones rained down from the ceiling. She felt waves of pain roll through her body but she heaved one last time, yanking Murphy off the catwalk and on to the ledge. Boulders broke loose from the roof and crashed into the catwalk, the metal shrieking under the barrage as the walkway surrendered and plunged into the raging water.

  Elliot straddled Murphy on the concrete ledge. His eyelids were heavy. “Stephen,” she shouted. “We have to get out.” She pointed to the vent shaft above them. “You have to climb.”

  He nodded weakly.

  She knelt under his arm and wheezed, helping him up. They staggered forward and fell against the ladder. She felt the water lapping at her shins and held his hands against the rungs.

  “You’ve got to climb, Stephen,” she yelled, the water rushing around them.

  They clung to the ladder and tried to reach for the next step but the water rose quickly, swallowing them up. The cold stole the air from their lungs and Murphy started drifting away. Elliot held on to him and clutched the ladder.

  She started to shiver and pulled him close. His arms were around her waist but his grip was weak. The water foamed around them and washed over their heads. Elliot kicked desperately to keep Murphy’s head above the surface, tugging on his clothes. She gulped down air and then felt the icy water drag them under. She kicked again and broke the surface, gasping and holding Murphy’s mouth out of the water. The night sky seemed to be getting bigger and bigger above them but she could feel the life draining from her body, the pain numbing her, the air rasping in and out of her lungs. They were dragged underwater again and she struggled to keep her eyes open.

  Then she felt weightless.

  They crashed into the river and Elliot’s eyes snapped open. She reached out for Murphy and held on to him tight, lashing out with her feet and fighting the pain and the cold, pulling on him to get him to the surface. She thrashed until she felt the cool night on her face and she gulped in a lungful of air.

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA MONDAY 19 SEPTEMBER 12:05 AM MSK

  Valentina Nevzorova studied Hartigan’s bruised face and sighed heavily, stepping towards the head of the stretcher as the paramedics tended to the agent’s wounds. Hartigan’s clothes were torn and bloodied, her hands stained red, and blood dripped down her leg. Nevzorova gently stroked Hartigan’s matted blonde hair, stopping when she saw something shining in the analyst’s hands.

  Nevzorova unfolded Hartigan’s fingers and picked up the coin. “Korolev’s dead,” the president declared.

  “That’s his?” her assistant asked.

  Nevzorova nodded, absently wiping it on her skirt.

  He raised his eyebrows. “He was a coin collector?”

  Nevzorova swept her hair away from her face and rolled the coin across the top of her hand. “Twenty years ago,” she said, “Korolev was a small-time nightclub owner in Moscow who liked pop music and had contacts in the US entertainment industry. He also liked smoking marijuana. The state couldn’t prove that he was a spy for the US, but they imprisoned him anyway as a part of their promise to rid the city of crime.” She reached over Hartigan and pushed the coin back into the analyst’s hand, folding her fingers gently. “It was a new regime with old habits.”

  Hartigan’s eyelids flickered, her eyes slowly coming into focus, and she peered up at Nevzorova.

  The President of Russia stroked the analyst’s cheek. “Emily, how are you feeling?” she asked softly.

  “I…” She blinked slowly. “I thought about what you said,” Hartigan choked, “and I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Emily,” Nevzorova murmured, “the difference between right and wrong is how much everyone is willing to live with.” She brushed the hair from the agent’s eyes. “Can you live with it?”

  “But, what I did—”

  “Was heroic,” Nevzorova finished. “Korolev is dead. You helped save my country, and perhaps yours.”

  Hartigan’s eyes fell.

  “Rest, now, Emily,” Nevzorova said. “I’ll come and visit you in the hospital.”

  Hartigan opened her mouth to speak but changed her mind, nodding and looking away. Her eyes became heavy.

  Nevzorova nodded to the paramedics and they pushed Hartigan’s trolley into the back of the ambulance. The president went to leave.

  “Madam President,” her assistant called out. “The coin?”

  Nevzorova paused, folding her arms across her chest. “It was a gift from a woman that loved him very much,” she said, her eyes cold. “Of course, that was a long time ago, when he was a very different man.” She turned away. “And she was a very different woman.”

  Elliot pressed down on Murphy’s chest before blowing air into his mouth. “I need a doctor!” she yelled at the crowd.

  The tenants from nearby apartment buildings had gathered on the street to watch the bombing of the Presidential Palace. When the dust had cleared, they had been confronted by Elliot struggling out of the Moscow River, dragging Murphy behind her. Two men had helped her pull him on to the pavement and she’d started CPR. Her lungs were still on fire and each breath rasped through her throat. “A doctor!” she wheezed hoarsely. “Please!”

  “I’m a doctor,” an elderly man said, stepping out of the crowd and kneeling beside Murphy.

  Elliot continued pushing down on Murphy’s chest, each compression sending a shot of pain up her arm. She couldn’t stop. She refused to stop.

  Don’t go, Stephen. Stay. Stay.

  “Please, Stephen, wake up,” she begged, her voice cracking.

  He coughed and spluttered, rolling on to his side and releasing a lungful of water on the pavement. He lay back gasping and Elliot collapsed on top of him, groaning in pain.

  “Why don’t you come inside?” the doctor said.

  Elliot nodded and patted Murph
y on the chest. He moaned and looked at her. “You scared the hell out of me,” she said, smiling.

  “Where am I?”

  “With me,” she said, touching his cheek.

  He ran his hand through her hair and smiled before letting his head fall back to the pavement. Two men helped him to his feet and another grabbed Elliot, her legs wobbling beneath her. They helped them up the stairs and through the door of the apartment building.

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA MONDAY 19 SEPTEMBER 12:55 AM MSK

  Murphy’s eyes opened and he stared at the mouldy ceiling above him. He was lying on a single bed that creaked on old springs. Elliot hunched forward in a wooden chair.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.” She reached out and touched his cheek. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I was hit by a train.”

  “You took a nasty hit to the head and split your scalp open. You bled everywhere but there’s no concussion.”

  “Why can I taste strawberries?”

  “That’s my lip gloss.”

  “What did you do, give me a makeover?”

  “You’re lucky I did anything.”

  “Hey, I caught a bomb in my back.”

  “Now you’re exaggerating.”

  “And my back was already cut and bruised, which—”

  “Was your own fault. I remember, I was there.”

  “I’m just telling you what it feels like.”

  “You shouldn’t feel anything. The doc pulled all the fragments out and numbed you up.”

  “Well, my leg hurts,” he grumbled. “I got stabbed, you know.”

  Elliot gently squeezed his thigh with her hand and he groaned. “What about that? Does that hurt?”

  “I don’t think I did anything to deserve that.”

  “Oh, really? Let me give you a list.” She started counting on her fingers. “I nearly drowned, I was attacked with an axe, shot at, took a shower in broken glass, got bombed by aeroplanes, and I nearly fell off the catwalk.”

  “An axe? Was I there for all of that?”

  “You slept through a lot of it.”

  “It was a bit close, wasn’t it?”

  “Tell me about it. The water forced us through the vent shaft and we landed in the river. I dragged you to shore and we were lucky enough to land in a place where a doctor lived.”

  “All according to my brilliant plan.”

  “Nobody plays those odds.”

  “Not alone, they don’t.” He reached for her hand, weaving their fingers together. Her face softened. “Thanks, Slim.”

  She shrugged. “Hey, you saved me a couple of times. I think we’re square.”

  “I never would’ve made it without you.”

  “Don’t forget it, either,” she said, smiling. “And you might want to send a thank-you card to Canberra, too.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Nikolay’s dead.” She brushed the hair from her eyes. “He was killed by an Australian agent, a woman.”

  Murphy grunted and glanced away.

  “The television won’t shut up about it,” Elliot continued, gesturing towards the living room behind the door. “I think she’s going to get a medal from the president.”

  His eyes glazed over.

  “Hey.” She poked him in the ribs. “Did you hear me?”

  Murphy shifted on the pillow and sighed heavily. “I need to tell you something,” he murmured.

  “No, you need to rest.”

  “It’s important, Simone. I lied to you.”

  Her face crumbled but she tried to smile again. “Look, let’s not do this—”

  “No, please,” he said. “I have to tell you. It’s eating me up.” “What is it?” she croaked.

  He lifted her chin so she was looking into his eyes. “I’ve always really liked your cooking.”

  Elliot grinned.

  “You always score points off me and I just needed some ammunition so I chose that,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You owe me so big.”

  “I thought you said we were square?”

  “A holiday. Somewhere warm.”

  “How am I going to afford that? I’m unemployed.”

  “Get some rest.” She kissed him on the forehead and stood up. “I’m going to give the doctor more money so we don’t end up in jail.”

  160 KILOMETRES SOUTHWEST OF BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA SATURDAY 4 MARCH 4:06 PM AEST

  Stephen Murphy leaned against the bonnet of the car and closed his eyes briefly. The sun tickled his face and he smiled. The magpies squawked in the eucalypts and swooped to the ground to peck at the earth. Cows lumbered through the swaying grass, flicking their tails to shoo away the flies, and a dog yelped at them through a crooked barbed wire fence. The dog trotted up to Murphy, its tongue hanging out as it panted. Murphy patted its head and its tail wagged.

  He sighed and looked at the clouds on the horizon. The closest had bulging grey stomachs and were topped with fuzzy white fronds. Behind them, he could see the gloom of an approaching storm. The sky flashed over the mountains and the thunder rumbled across the earth, rattling the windshield of the car.

  The dog dropped a soggy tennis ball at his feet and stared at him longingly. Murphy crouched to pick up the ball and the dog’s tail wagged, its eyes twinkling.

  “Run, fella,” he said, tossing the ball. The dog barked and yelped, skidding through the gravel and kicking up dust. “You’re free,” he murmured.

  “Talking to the animals, huh,” Simone Elliot said from behind him.

  He turned and smirked. “They don’t talk back.”

  She stuck her tongue out.

  “How much was the fuel?” he asked.

  “We’re doing okay,” she said. “Stop worrying about the money.”

  “If we had nothing to worry about, you’d have an armful of chocolate bars.”

  “Relax. I found us a job.”

  He glanced at the service station. “Please tell me you’re not going into customer service, because that would be—”

  “Shut up.” She pouted and smacked him on the shoulder. “It’s a contract job. I checked my email while I was waiting in line.”

  Murphy looked down when he realised the dog was at his feet again. “Where?”

  “Romania.”

  He squatted, the dog dropped the ball and nudged it towards him with its nose. “You think the world’s ready for us?”

  “We’ve been hiding long enough,” she said. “Sooner or later they’re going to work out we’re still alive. But if you don’t want to do it…”

  “Hey, I didn’t say that. A man’s got to eat.”

  Murphy picked up the ball and scratched the dog behind the ear.

  You’re not free at all, are you, fella.

  Murphy gazed at the tennis ball.

  This is all you know.

  Elliot frowned. “Something on your mind?”

  He threw the ball again and watched the dog chase after it. “Is the job a good one?”

  “Challenging.”

  “As in, we could die?”

  Elliot kissed him on the cheek and turned on her heels, marching towards the driver’s-side door.

  “You’re not going to get very far without…” His voice trailed off as he patted his pockets.

  Elliot held the keys in the air, jingling them vigorously.

  “So it’s like that, huh.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Elliot lobbed his wallet over the roof of the car. “You probably want that back.” She climbed in, turning the key in the ignition.

  Murphy stuffed his wallet into his pocket and grinned, looking down at the dog waiting patiently at his feet. He picked up the ball, tossing it in the air and catching it again. “We are what we are, aren’t we, fella?” He hurled the ball far away, the dog barking excitedly as he ran after it. “And we do what we do.” Murphy shook his head in surrender and climbed into the car.

  She mashed the buttons on the GPS. “How does this thing work, anyway?�
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  “Just shout ‘Romania’ at it,” he suggested. “The car will figure it out.”

  Elliot threw the GPS over her shoulder. “How hard could it be, right?” She put the car in gear and drove on to the highway, heading towards the thundering clouds.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To Mum and Dad: thank you for filling our home with books and stories and laughter; thank you for letting me own my successes as well as my mistakes. To Dad: thanks for reading so many drafts and answering the phone when I wanted to talk about them. To Mum: thanks for stubbornly resisting the urge to read my story until it was in the shops—it’s one of the things that kept me going.

  To John Acutt: to me, you’re a Promethean figure, a great teacher who opened up a world of words and ideas. Dedicating this book to you is the least I can do—you started this, after all.

  To Sarah Gleeson-White: I’m grateful that you made time for me. Thank you for your advice, your support, and for pointing me in the right direction. I’d also like to thank Bruce Bennett for taking the time to read my earliest manuscript and give his feedback.

  Thank you to those who have read drafts of my story and shared their thoughts at various stages: Ian Gibson, Amye Petersen, Rob Hack, Angela Jennison, Shaun Jennison, and Julie Greenwood. To Sarah and Gary Donaldson, and Lisa and Zac Cummins: thank you for reading my stories, and a big thank you for opening up your homes, sharing your thoughts and ideas, your scotch and cigarettes, and feeding me delicious home-cooked meals. Thank you all.

  To Deonie Fiford: thank you for your sharp editing—you raised great points, made brilliant suggestions, and it has made me a better writer.

  To the superheroes at Pantera Press, Alison, Marty, and John M.

  Green: thank you for believing in me and this story. I’m grateful for your patience, your professionalism, your passion, your humour, your encouragement, your ideas, and your understanding. To Lucy Bell and James Read: I’m grateful for your sharp eyes and fearless questions. And to the rest of the team at Pantera Press: thanks for all you’ve done to make this story a book, and this mechanic an author.