The Australian

by Lesley Young

  “Miss. We’re here,” grumbled the driver, no doubt happy to get rid of me, as I would have been if I were him. I slammed the door behind me and ran into Jenny’s building, up the stairs, and knocked loudly on her door, heaving for air, not having a key, desperate.

  She opened the door in her pajamas, skeptical as to what kind of madman might be pounding her door down at such an hour, and upon seeing me, in my ridiculous state, her eyes went wide. “Crikey!”

  I barreled around her straight to Miss Moneypenny, who was walking toward me from the hall. I snatched her up and stuffed my face deep into her soft orange fur. Her purring picked up and she placed a paw on my face, reminding me she did not like being picked up in that fashion. I let her go after a moment, feeling restored, minimally.

  “Charlie! Bloody hell! What happened?” Jenny asked again. And she did not let up. I shrugged her hand off my shoulder. Shaking my head, glancing briefly at her, I headed straight for the bathroom, not even closing the door behind me, just the shower curtain, after I stripped and stepped in naked. Jenny was awfully quiet as I got in, and took off into the living room.

  I spent twenty-five minutes under the hot water, scrubbing out the clay from my hair, which required three rounds of shampoo, and even then I could not get it out from under my fingernails (and later found yet more caked in my ear crevices).

  When I got out, wrapped in a towel, Jenny was waiting again in the hall dressed in jeans and a shirt.

  Her face was not concerned anymore—it was stern. That gave me pause. She did not say a word, just followed me into my room.

  I was breathless with exhaustion.

  Relief at the return to normalcy was just beginning to sink in.

  I dressed in pajamas, not caring that she was watching.

  “Jenny,” I finally said. “I cannot talk until I get some sleep.” I glanced at her, and proceeded to make a liar of myself. “I am breaking up with Mr. Knight. And quitting my job. Don’t worry!” I reassured her as her face went from stern to negative. She even shook her head at me.

  “I will cover my share of the rent for another month. However, I plan to return to America and live with B, any moment now.” I harbored deep hope Sullivan would still provide me with a plane ticket, even though the danger he was worried I would be in had come and gone.

  If he did not, I would purchase a ticket with what little money I had saved and B’s assistance. I would finally ask her for money.

  “I think . . . yes, I think I might apply for a student loan and go back to school after all,” I said. “I should like to be a mathematician or perhaps specialize in symbol logic.”

  I realized I had been speaking more to myself than to Jenny, as her response interrupted my train of thought.

  “I know what happened, Charlie. And you’re not going anywhere.”

  I glanced at her—my brow furrowing.

  What peculiar body language. Her legs were spread apart and her shoulders were pushed forward. Her thin eyebrows were raised, and her amber eyes, full of a certain kind of . . . grit, perhaps, yes, that was it, that I had never seen before. I eyed Miss Moneypenny, who was sitting across the room beside her water dish, which appeared to have been knocked over.

  Why, Jenny must not have noticed.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, trying to disregard her oversight. It is difficult to question the quality of a charitable service, even if it left my cat dehydrated.

  “Uluru. The hit attempt. Fourteen dead.”

  I stared at her, not quite certain I was following. Was . . . was she talking about what just happened? But how could that be?

  “But . . .?” I was breathless, unable to tear my eyes away from hers. All-knowing, feeling as though I was standing on a raft, on a lake, unsteady.

  Fourteen?!

  “I’m not just some travel relocation staffer, obviously,” she exclaimed, stretching her arms out and dropping them.

  Blood left my face and I stepped back, reaching for the office chair.

  I shook my head. No. Surely not.

  “ASIS?” I mouthed, as my vocal chords were not operating.

  She shook her head, crossing her arms. “Interpol.” She let that sink in, nodding her head. “Money laundering division. Embedded in Knight Enterprises nine months ago. Come up dry so far. But you’ve helped accelerate me, Charlie, so I guess I can thank you for that.”

  Air came out of my mouth, as though she had punched me. And she had, figuratively speaking.

  “I thought . . . I thought we were friends.” I was not checking for confirmation that this was not true. I was expressing my disapproval. I thought of how she waited for me inside the Pyrmont condo, anxious to meet Mr. Knight’s new assistant. Like Sullivan Blaise had been. How she had befriended me. All her meticulous questioning about the dilemmas I had encountered with Jace, and who everyone was, and what they meant to him . . . all her sympathy. False sympathy.

  I had betrayed Jace after all.

  “Yeah, well, I guess you’ll make smarter choices next time.” She delivered this, not rudely, but rather as advice, and I fought the urge to physically assault her.

  I spun around, grabbed my bag, still full of my old clothes, and picked it up.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Charlie. We’re going to have a chat.”

  “Fuck you.” (I had never used those two words together before and I rather liked their . . . quintessential disregard.)

  “You’ll reconsider when you learn about the troubles your mate Beatrice Moody is in.”

  I halted, halfway down the hall.

  I was blinded, momentarily . . . with rage. I turned around slowly.

  “Are you threatening my family?” Now I understand the desire to inflict hurt. It is . . . organic. A grace. A perfect, true grace. I knew exactly how Jace must have felt, when he strapped on those guns and headed out into the darkness without a heart.

  “Nope. But you can help her, Charlie, by helping us.”

  I heard a knock at the door, and time slowed right down. I watched Jenny walk past me, slack-jawed, checking before opening it up. Three men came in, their eyes landing on me straight away. Two older gentlemen wearing suits, and another man in jeans and a T-shirt with a blazer. Jenny introduced them, but to be perfectly honest, almost none of it registered. I was so . . . emotional. I did notice that the two in suits had much more impressive identification than Sullivan Blaise—real shiny shields. They also had German accents, or perhaps one was French . . . or Swiss? They tried to get me to sit on the living room sofa, but I stood, stunned, willing them silently to resolve the terrible angst surging through me.

  “What’s wrong with B? What do you mean help her?” I asked for the third time.

  They glanced at Jenny, who had poured me a glass of wine. I did not take it.

  “Your friend Beatrice Moody is in with a very dangerous lot for over ninety thousand dollars,” said one of the men in suits.

  “Seems she has a nasty gambling habit,” added Jenny. I recalled, distinctly, the moment I had explained to Jenny that B had student loan debt.

  My head jerked forward. “No. You are mistaken.” I reminded her, “She has student loan debt.” B complained about her debts so often, on several occasions, I had asked her if she had defaulted on payments. Why else would she be so concerned? She reassured me no, just that it was the length of time it would take her to pay them back that upset her.

  One of the men in suits opened up a laptop. After he had finished doing whatever was necessary, he passed it across the table. I reached for it reluctantly. Their eyes were full of intent yet distant. Fortresses.

  I swallowed. It took me a moment to ascertain what I was looking at. I sat down.

  Text exchanges, from B’s phone.

  Demands to pay.

  Her, negotiating for time.

  Threats.

  I gasped.

  Nasty threats.

  I placed the computer on the coffee table and ran to the washroom.

 
I heaved up a bunch of fluids. No food. I had no food in me.

  I did not feel the physical sickness as much as the emotional sickness.

  Jenny passed me a washcloth. I took it. She stood in the tiny doorway.

  “It’ll be apples, Charlie. We’ll even get you back to America, ay. All you have to do is keep doing what you’re doing. Go back to Jace tonight. Stay by his side. And then when the time comes, we’ll guide you through it. I promise. When it’s done, you can leave him, and continue with the rest of your life, being proud you’ve done the world a massive civic duty. And we’ll clear your mate’s debts for her.”

  I stared down at my hands.

  I felt . . . the singe of the mark, tasted the smoke of the burned flesh, the tattoo on my soul.

  Shame.

  B had not told me the truth; not because she wanted to protect me but because she believed I could not help her.

  But I could. I had a way.

  “Asking Mr. Knight to pay your friend’s debts is ill-advised,” said a deep male voice. One of the Germans. I wondered momentarily if he had read my mind.

  “You must understand. Beatrice Moody has fallen behind on payments for so long now, and borrowed from so many different sources, I’m afraid several organizations may intend to make an example of her.” I gasped, examining his blank face. Was he exaggerating? Those texts suggested he was not. “If you help us, we will pay all her debts, and clear up the trouble with all of the parties involved. She is already into debt in the state she recently moved to, as well, so she will have to move states again, we think, to be safe.” Good Lord, B! “Also, we will make sure your friend gets the help she needs so she does not find herself in the same situation again. Your choice.”

  I glanced up.

  He was watching me.

  I stood up, unsteady.

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  Chapter 20

  I stood in the Plaza lobby at six p.m., roughly twenty-two hours since the shooting, sleep deprived and badly shaken. Miss Moneypenny was in her soft-sided carrier, slung over my shoulder, oddly quiet. In each hand I held a suitcase full of old clothes and a garbage bag full of the new ones I had not taken to Uluru.

  I paused, put down everything, and dug out my employee access card. I had no idea if it was programmed to get me into the penthouse suite. Obviously, I would prefer if Jace had not granted me special access—thus perhaps curtailing my intentions to betray him.

  I ran through the drill one last time. One of the agents, it turns out, was an American diplomat—foiling my plan to head straight to the U.S. Consulate. Furthermore, the two agents patiently answered most of my questions regarding my new espionage task: they said they believed there were six members of the business syndicate Jace was involved in. These men were all reputable, legitimate business owners or moneyed elite—one was even connected to Danish royalty; another to a wealthy French shipping family. They provided names and aliases I should listen for, and described who the men were: the Dane and the Frenchman, a German, a man who called no single country home but owned more than three Swiss banks, another who was one of America’s wealthiest men, and Jace.

  I made the same protest I had done on Jace’s behalf to Sullivan. “It’s hardly a crime for businessmen to meet with other businessmen.”

  “You are correct,” answered one of the Germans. “But several of these men have criminal ties. More importantly,” he cut off my next protest, “combined, these men own holdings, real estate, and business stocks that could leverage a small nation.”

  “We want to know why they are meeting,” added the American diplomat.

  I pursed my lips. Efforts to convince them otherwise were clearly futile.

  “It’s called counter-intelligence, Charlie,” said Jenny. “Think of it as a preventive measure. How do you think we’re able to predict things like terrorist attacks and such? We get someone on the inside.”

  I made one last-ditch attempt.

  “But it could be nothing more than a secret society, meeting to discuss political issues of the world for all you know!” I did not think my argument was entirely unsound. Jace had on one occasion expressed an interest in world affairs to me (that it was sports-related was none of their business).

  “Charlie, each member’s a bloody kingpin, with businesses that specialize in different areas. Banking. Shipping. Property. It’s a syndicate, an imperial syndicate, okay?!” barked Jenny.

  She turned around, took a swig of wine, and faced me calmer.

  “The point is,” interceded the other man, the German agent, who had not yet spoken to me, “these men can’t be trusted not to have agendas, given their backgrounds. Obviously, we have identified a risk. That’s why we need proof of them meeting, together. We need to know what they are planning.”

  He continued on to explain that I was the only potential human asset who had ever gotten this close to Jace Knight. Apparently, Sullivan Blaise had his facts wrong. Jace was not organizing this imperialist group; he was the newest member, the weakest link. Interpol wanted to know what his role was, and to gather evidence. Once I got “a drop” on any meeting location, they wanted me to inform them. Any additional information I gleaned straight from Jace was also welcome.

  I swallowed.

  I closed my eyes now, counted to three, and opened them.

  Sighing, I picked everything up and headed to the elevators.

  And I thought Sullivan Blaise was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. I still wished desperately he had gotten me that plane ticket, up until Jenny told me, in the hallway, privately, that they knew he had met with me at B&L Driving Academy. She refused to tell me what had become of Sullivan.

  I wanted to hate Jenny for turning me official sleeper-agent, but logic demanded gratitude. Without Jenny, I might never have learned of B’s troubles.

  I had to help B. That is all my brain would process. Those threatening texts sent shivers down my spine.

  Even after the German agent warned me off asking for Jace to pay B’s debts, I still greatly desired to tell him everything. But, what guarantee did I have he would help me after I confessed everything? And if he did help me, what kind of sway would Jace have with various American loan sharks? Plus, I was not sure I could help B with her addiction myself. No, after my mother, I knew I could not. Interpol promised they would take care of her and her addiction, as well as her debts. It was the most logical choice.

  I had to spy on Jace to save B.

  I stepped onto a busy elevator, and managed to insert my card with my arms full.

  I pressed the penthouse button and it lit up. My brain shorted, then after a blip of nothing, it restarted.

  Logic. I could rely on logic. I pushed aside my emotions.

  I needed to prepare to see Jace—in his home.

  I wondered what it was like. He had wanted us to come here instead of Jenny’s, apologizing for its impersonal state needlessly. He had lived in the Plaza rather than buying his own place, he told me, partly out of nostalgia (it was his first hotel purchase) and laziness. Like the proverbial painter whose house’s walls are bare, he had not bothered to buy his own personal property.

  Jenny’s team of Interpol agents said he was home. And this was confirmed when two rather foreboding men stopped me after I stepped off the elevator into the foyer outside his front door. They demanded to know who I was when I said I was there for Jace Knight. One of them spoke into a device on his wrist, and I thought I heard my name.

  He must have been given approval because he stepped aside just as the double doors were thrown open. I did not have time to be nervous.

  Jace stood there, arms out, holding the doors wide, staring at me, skeptically. Right away I felt the adrenaline jack up inside me. I tried to stamp it down with a rational intrepidity.

  His eyes narrowed, taking in my bags. He was wearing loose track pants and a T-shirt. My mouth opened . . . but nothing would come out. I closed it. I wavered.

  No. I could n
ot go through with it.

  I stepped back.

  His angry cast cracked. He stepped forward quickly . . .

  And I found myself tucked into his body and squeezed so tight it hurt. Miss Moneypenny, who had been caught partway in her carrier, protested, and he shot his hard gaze at me.

  “Jenny asked me to leave her apartment.” I stared at his mouth, unable to remember the rest of the lie Jenny told me give Jace.

  “She has, has she.” His lips were in a thin line.

  Silence.

  Jace was highly intelligent. Surely he would see through the lies. How could he let Jenny Williams infiltrate his organization in the first place? How could he let me infiltrate his heart?

  “Well, then, I’ll have to promote her,” he said, yanking Miss Moneypenny from me, telling his “mates” to bring in my stuff.

  They took it from me.

  That was easy.

  I followed him, allowing my emotions to go to the one place that felt normal: How would Miss Moneypenny react to new surroundings yet again?

  I could not even take care of her properly.

  I rubbed my hands together and glanced around. Jace’s suite seemed dark because of the heavy cream and dark blue curtains, nearly closed. Opulent minimalist best described the look. Marble floors. Marble kitchen island. Brass finishings. Black leather. Wood tables.

  Five men closed in, and one said, “Boss.”

  “Right,” said Jace, putting down Miss Moneypenny near me. The one who spoke stepped aside and a short man, with curly hair and glasses, pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. He did not look at all like a bodyguard, but rather a librarian or a scientist. Upon second glance, I realized he was not holding a cell phone; the device was bigger, shaped like a brick—like the one Dmitry’s men had used in Port Douglas. The man ran it all over my suitcases and the garbage bag, and then, eyeing Jace, who nodded, ran it over my body.

  “Checking for bugs.” Jace answered my questioning eyes.

  The blood drained from my face.

  His mouth lifted in one corner.