‘A rising star,’ Kralinsky pronounced from behind his shades. He’d waved away the glass of punch stacked with umbrellas and fruit segments and ordered champagne.
‘A man of integrity,’ the boy said. ‘Since when have you been a drinker?’
‘A man of intuition, foresight and courage,’ Kralinsky rejoined. ‘Since we get to celebrate a bucketful of qualifications and a rare, well-deserved break,’ he added, handing over a glass.
The boy sipped the vintage bubbly and watched them emerge from the pool, wondering if the man he watched had another quality he needed—a certain moral flexibility.
*
‘Hello,’ the woman said, turning to them. ‘What a glorious day, did you guys manage a swim?’
Kralinsky and the boy had entered the cocktail lounge and stopped to admire the ocean gleaming outside in the moonlight.
‘I certainly did, thank you ma’am,’ the boy replied, smiling, ‘but my friend here had pressing business with his pillow. In his defense, however, it has to be said that he’s been working extremely hard.’
Kralinsky gave the couple a wry smile.
‘I’m afraid this afternoon’s champagne took sweet revenge. I don’t normally drink so I was legless after two glasses.’
‘Well, can I offer you something good, strong and healthy to help recovery?’ the tall man asked, his dark eyes sparkling with humor. ‘They do a mean carrot, beetroot and ginger here.’
‘Delightful,’ Kralinsky said, frowning, ‘I think.’
Heads turned their way momentarily as they all burst into laughter and made their introductions.
Over the next hour the conversation flowed, eventually gravitating to food and dinner in particular. The couple recommended a restaurant, a favorite, serving authentic Caribbean cuisine, and suggested they eat together. To all intents, the encounter and ensuing arrangements to eat appeared to be purely spontaneous.
Only later, when the man’s vivacious young wife excused herself to prepare for an early start the next morning, did the men saunter down the water’s edge. What they had to say would not be easily overheard above the lapping waves. They immediately dropped the easy, conversational tone that had prevailed through the evening and faced each other.
‘Kralinsky tells me that you want to save the world,’ the man said, watching the boy carefully.
Their eyes locked and Kralinsky remained silent. He’d done the groundwork and now it was up to the two of them.
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ the boy said, ‘but I do have a long-range plan.’ The boy glanced at Kralinsky and smiled slightly before continuing. ‘We can do this alone, but without the element of a highly placed and influential supporter within law enforcement, it will take longer and have less impact.’
‘But why me and why now?’ the man asked. ‘I don’t have those qualities. I’m just hanging on the lower rungs of the big ladder.’
The boy smiled again.
‘My friend here,’ he said, without shifting his gaze, ‘has spent this last year tracking you down. You tick all the boxes—honesty, loyalty, guts, everything it takes. But, above all, you have a burning passion—an anger—for justice that not even your wife is fully aware of.’
The boy watched his face cloud with anger.
‘Who are you and where the fuck did you get your information?’ he demanded, barely able to keep his voice low.
The boy knew he was on thin ice. If they’d misjudged the situation and he
divulged their sources, it could raise a huge stink, costing millions in lost revenue as hard-won confidence in Kralinsky’s reputation would plummet. He sensed rather than saw his friend’s slight nod to go ahead.
‘We’ll tell you everything you want to know—every detail of our activities,’
the boy said, ‘all we ask is that you listen to what we have to say and consider it. If you then wish to drop us in it—so be it. We’re willing to take the risk.’
An hour later, the man walked away from them and stood alone by the water’s edge.
‘You want me to be your mole, that’s the bottom line isn’t it?’ he’d said, after hearing the boy out.
‘I don’t see it that way,’ the boy replied without a second’s hesitation, ‘I see it as a way that like-minded people can make a big difference. We all agree that conventional methods are too unwieldy, they’re stifled in red tape and riddled with self-service and corruption.’
‘Isn’t that what you’re doing?’ he countered, ‘Bending the rules to suit yourselves. In fact, taking a form of personal revenge?’
‘That’s how it started out,’ the boy admitted, and I still feel deeply angry for my parents. But it’s beyond that now and I’d like to believe that my desire for retribution has morphed into something more sophisticated—more altruistic.’
‘It still sounds like revenge to me,’ the man said, thoughtfully.
‘Why did you join the police?’ the boy asked. ‘You had a glorious career ahead of you in law—even politics, and yet you tossed it all away by deciding to start at the bottom and hit the streets.’
‘If you’ve done your homework, you know why,’ he countered. ‘Anyway, it is public knowledge, my father …’
‘…Was the chief prosecutor in a governmental conspiracy trial and was killed by a car bomb,’ the boy said, gently. ‘It is public knowledge, but what isn’t widely known is that someone in the administration was responsible—someone who was desperately afraid of being exposed by the trial. Your father was killed by one of his own people.’
‘Are you telling me you know who it is?’
‘We’ve got to be honest from the start here,’ the boy said, ‘and I’m not about to mislead you into a decision by hinting that I already have some special knowledge that’s going to help you. I simply don’t know. But we will find out. And, whether you decide that this is the route you personally want to go down or not, I promise we will give you that information when we have it.’
‘You really believe that your objectives and mine are related, don’t you?’
‘Absolutely,’ the boy said fervently, ‘we’ll show you all the research we’ve got—everything. What we mustn’t forget is that this is a two-headed snake and, when we’re ready, both heads have to be lopped off at the same time.’
Kralinsky and the boy watched the man’s figure as he stood apart, silhouetted in the moonlight.
‘What do you think?’ the older man murmured.
The boy shrugged and smiled at his friend.
‘Could I have given it a better shot?’
‘Well,’ Kralinsky said, chuckling, ‘you didn’t exactly have to invite him to drop us in it, did you?’
‘I meant it, and I know you do too,’ the boy said, watching him walk back to them.
He looked at them both intently before speaking.
‘I think I know people,’ he said, ‘and you guys frighten me with your honesty.’
‘With each other and you, yes we are honest,’ Kralinsky said.
‘I need to think about this, it’s literally a life changing decision. But one thing I will assure you, whichever way I decide, this conversation never occurred. We leave very early tomorrow morning and if I decide to go in with you I’ll leave you an innocent message. If not, I don’t know you and don’t want to hear from you again.’
He put out his hand.
‘And I do wish you both the very best of luck.’
*
Early next morning the boy found his friend in the dining room hunched over a cup of coffee.’
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ Kralinsky moaned, ‘and I’ve checked—no messages at the desk.’
The boy looked out over the calm ocean. He fixed the tranquility of the moment in his mind, wanting to remember it for the rest of his life.
‘Remember what you said last night before bed?’ the boy asked him.
‘Kralinsky huffed.
‘Well getting out of that is an unexpected plus, I suppose.’
T
he boy laughed, recalling Kralinsky’s vow to lose forty pounds if their
proposal was accepted.
‘You’ve got five minutes to get your walking shoes on, pal,’ he chortled,
dropping a sheet of hotel paper onto the table. ‘It was under my door this morning.’
Kralinsky stared. Thanks for the entertaining evening. Look us up someday
when you’re in Washington. Hasta luego, Juan and Cara Cortez.
‘Oh fuck,’ Kralinsky said, beaming stupidly, ‘One five mile hike coming up, right?’
‘And that’s just for starters,’ the boy beamed.
17. St Vincent’s Hospital, Sydney
You can die in hospital
Kristen loved the sun’s delicious heat, especially after paddling through the bay’s cooling depths and emerging from the glassy water, dripping, thirsty and ready for a long gin and tonic and a sly nap behind the enormous shades Cara bought her.
It was a terrible thirst she felt right now. Too much time in the salty water, you fool, she thought trying to stretch. Maybe Cara will be the ultimate girlfriend and hand me a drink. She tries to speak, call out, and the words won’t come. Her lips are dry, feeling blistered and swollen. Her head aches horribly. Oh, no, we’ve fallen asleep in the sun, again. Feel numb—my toes, my fingers—why can’t I move anything?
Kristen squeezed her eyes open, closing them with a moan as harsh light seared her retinas. Her heart raced and then settled, the sedatives automatically kicking in. It’s a dream, a weird dream. She remembered the part before the beach—a mass of grinding, tearing metal with her inside, screaming as it tumbled through the air. Remembering—not a dream. The staring, impassive face, as the car—a Merc—pulled alongside hers just before the end. Horribly scarred. A twisted mouth, and cruel eyes, so very cruel.
This time her eyes snapped open and she squinted. A room. White mostly. Medical equipment. Where the fuck is this? Kristen could feel her body now—floaty—nice really. She experimented, lifting her left hand. It was bruised and sprouted a hedgehog of wires and tubes—not so nice. She allowed her eyes to travel further. A bank of monitors beeped and flickered on a trolley to her right with an open door beyond. She sees a corridor with white coats floating past. Definitely a hospital, but where? She felt her furry teeth under her tongue. It was twice its normal size. And for how many hours?
Kristen looked around the bed for a call button. She had to tell them about Zach. She felt terrible. The poor bugger had been handcuffed to his desk all day.
*
Down the corridor, Jack Dalton’s eyes were busy even as he sipped his coffee. The yachting magazine on his knee was partly for show and partly to remind him that in three months time his life would change forever.
Jack was so close to retirement it made him shiver. After almost thirty years in law enforcement and the last ten in the Australian Federal Police, he was ready to turn his back on all the idiots, scum and dross of society who’d interrupted his sleep, given him stress ulcers, and strained his marriage a thousand times. He would turn in his badge, step aboard the brand-spanking new Island Packet 440 yacht with his long suffering wife, Stella, and happily never see another gun as long as he lived.
At ten in the morning, the corridor outside the intensive care unit was busy, but he’d been outside Corsfield’s door for a week now and had got used the hustle and bustle. It had taken a couple of tense days—it usually did—working out who was who, checking IDs until he knew the faces and annoying the odd medical specialist who couldn’t be bothered carrying one because, ‘Everyone knows who I am in this hospital.’
Jack had been in the game too long, one of the reasons he was here on the day shift. He knew when to stand his ground. The other reason puzzled him. This wasn’t normally Federal Police business. Protecting at risk Australian civilians in Sydney came under New South Wales Police jurisdiction. It was certainly strange. Not that he cared.
Except for the shitty attitude of the staff, this was a cushy number. They’d changed. Maybe they were under more pressure these days. A couple of years ago they would be aware that he wasn’t allowed to leave his post and brought him coffee and the occasional snack. So what—it was Thursday and tomorrow and he had a day off. Away sailing with his eight-year-old granddaughter, Katie—and he couldn’t wait. Where Jack had taken years to get the hang of sailing, Katie was a natural. By the age of five, she’d graduated from two off-beach courses with flying colors and was racing dinghies. And, until he’d bought the 440, she’d been more than happy to join him sanding, painting and varnishing his big old, heavy clinker-built.
It was the bandage that Jack spotted first. Neatly covering the man’s head and face, it would seem to be the most natural thing in the world to see in a hospital—except for one thing. When Jack saw that the bandage had been fastened with a safety pin his radar pinged. He knew that safety pins hadn’t been used on dressings for years.
Jack yawned and, casually tossing his magazine to one side, stood up to stretch. The figure making his way towards him on crutches was slimly built, using the crutches to support a crooked left leg. The hairs on the back of Jack’s neck prickled. The guy had both shoes on and no signs of injury on either foot. And this was ICU. Only medical staff walked—the patients were carted in and out.
Jack unhitched the safety strap on his holster leaving his handgun more accessible as he moved to intercept the man. If he walked at just the right speed, he would meet up with his suspect about five meters from Kristen Corsfield’s door.
His calculations were spot on, but he realized his error as the two men converged and he saw dark eyes swivel towards him from behind the bandages. He’d left it a moment too late to draw his gun. He managed one word—‘police!’ before a long thin blade entered his left side and the world stopped moving. Ice, he thought, it feels like ice.
Jack could hear and see perfectly well. It was his body that seemed to have deserted him.
‘Are you alright there, buddy?’ a heavily accented voice asked, as he felt himself being lowered gently to the floor. Anxious faces swam before his eyes.
He managed to reach to his side with his right hand and felt the wetness soaking his shirt. The bandaged head was no longer in sight.
‘Get me up,’ he breathed, and then coughed as blood welled into his throat.
Jack felt a hand restraining him.
‘Stay still, I’m a doctor.’
‘And I’m a cop,’ Jack said, unnecessarily, recognizing one of the specialists he’d had ID problems with. ‘And if you don’t let me get up, so help me I’ll shoot you.’
Reluctant hands guided Jack to his feet. He swayed and steadied himself against the wall. Corsfield’s door was closed and a pair of crutches lay on the floor outside. Jack reached for his weapon, but it had gone. Cursing, he shoved his way through the gathering crowd, took a deep breath, grabbed a crutch and smashed into the door.
*
Kristen opened her eyes when she heard a commotion in the corridor. She must have dozed off. People were hurrying past her door, stopping, talking. She jumped as a man, his head bandaged, quickly backed into her room and shut the door. She saw the knife and tried to scream, but no sound came.
As the figure advanced she could make out the eyes and gasped. She’d seen them before, just as her car had began to roll. They’d watched her from the passing Mercedes, watched her almost die.
‘You stick around like a fly on shit, that’s for sure lady,’ the man said with a slightly muffled but unmistakably American accent. ‘Now just relax and this will be real quick—you won’t feel a thing.’
Frozen into a terrified stillness, Kristen watched the knife slide towards her. A picture of Zack stuck to his desk flashed into her mind. Anger followed. A wild burst of rage as she saw what these people had done to them.
‘Fuck you,’ she whispered, hoarsely, flicking her bedcovers up and into the advancing blade. Knowing it wouldn’t be enough to save her life, she swung her arm back and smash
ed her drip stand at her assassin’s face. She got lucky. One arm of the metal frame collided with his temple throwing him off balance. As he staggered backwards with a strangled, ‘motherfucker,’ and the door crashed in, she rolled off the bed and hit the floor.
*
Jack’s vision, blurring badly, took in the scene. The bed was empty but he could see someone on the floor on the other side. His suspect, eyes glaring with hot anger through the disheveled bandages, was facing him. As he launched himself forward, Jack saw his own gun appear in the man’s hand. Jack’s arm swung in a mighty arc, the end of the crutch colliding with the man’s head with a sharp smacking sound and he went down.
Jack looked at the still body, kicking his gun clear. He couldn’t even try to pick it up. He staggered over to where Kristen lay, conscious of the blood streaming thickly off his shirt and an awful pain tearing at his chest. Grimacing with pain, he knelt beside her.
‘You OK?’ he said, giving her the best smile he could muster.
Kristen didn’t reply. She was looking, wide eyed over his right shoulder. Jack turned as the first bullet hit him. He thought it would hurt, but it didn’t. He remembered Katie. She’d be disappointed about tomorrow, that’s for sure. He felt himself fading and made one final effort to protect Kristen. Falling across her, he felt four more bullets thud into his back before he died.
The Boy
Thirteen months after making Juan and Cara Cortez’s acquaintance in the Caribbean, the boy, already a team leader, sat at his desk in an open plan office and checked his encrypted email on what Kralinsky was calling ‘a smartcom’. His friend had given him a prototype, telling him that millions of the machines would soon be circulating, changing the way people communicated forever. The boy was using his to by-pass the normal company network to access the internet undetected.
‘What’s that you’ve got there?’
It was Tom, his supervisor. Rapid promotion had earned the boy a slightly larger work space and a wary nod from Tom, who could already feel the boy’s enthusiasm and drive nipping at his heels. He hadn’t seen his boss approach and resolved to be more careful.
The Last Book. A Thriller Page 15