Murder Undercover

by Claire McNab

  I found I was holding my own breath, and let it out in a long sigh. Drowning was supposed to be a great way to die, but I couldn’t believe that was true. My thoughts kept skipping from scenario to scenario.

  Maybe Cindy had nothing to do with it—Harry Aylmer was at home with scuba gear, so maybe he had drowned Snead.

  Or perhaps someone had tampered with the tanks Snead wore, so that he was breathing, say, carbon monoxide. Then he’d slide into unconsciousness without anyone being anywhere near him, lose his mouthpiece, and breathe in water without even feeling it sear his lungs.

  Jeez! I was holding my breath again.

  I looked up at the sky, searching for some sign that Cyclone Anthony was on his way to batter our island paradise. There were clouds on the horizon, but above the sky was a clear, pale blue. The breeze had picked up even more, however, and little whitecaps were flicking foam into the air. There were no big breakers here, of course. To the east of us the full might of the Pacific was beating itself to nothing against the ramparts of the outer Barrier Reef. Only in a powerful storm would the water enclosed by the reef have high seas.

  The catamaran set off for home in late afternoon. The clouds had grown heavier and darker, and before we reached the island the sun had been blotted out.

  “There’s a blow coming,” said Pete, with the attitude of a master mariner.

  Tim laughed at him. “You only know that, mate, because you’ve heard a weather forecast.”

  “Mark my words,” said Pete, “it’s going to be a big one.”

  I thought Pete might be right, as whitecaps were rolling in the normally placid sea inside the reef’s protection. The catamaran still scooted along, cutting through the wave tops with exhilarating ease. The passengers were subdued, most of them sitting and talking quietly, but the smooth ride ensured that no one, including me, showed any sign of seasickness.

  As a kid, I could vividly remember rough weather on my uncle’s fishing boat, and me leaning over the side to throw up while my brother, who had an iron stomach, jeered at my weakness. I understood very well the old joke: When you get seasick, first you worry you’ll die. Then you worry you won’t!

  My heart leapt when we approached the dock. Roanna was waiting there, leaning against the white railing, her hair blowing across her face.

  “I’ll look after everything,” said Pete. “You go on ahead.”

  I waited until the other passengers had disembarked, not as smooth a procedure as in the morning, as now the cat bucked and pitched in the rising sea. I leapt, gracefully I hoped, onto the dock. “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  A sudden gust of wind buffeted us. She flung her head back to look at the sky, which was wild with torn clouds. Lightning flickered on the horizon. “It’s going to pour. You’ve heard there’s a cyclone warning?”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  She leaned close to me to say softly, “I love making love in a storm.”

  My body responded as if a button had been pressed. “Me too,” I said.

  Roanna looked past me toward the cat, and her expression changed. I turned to see her brother standing on the narrow deck. Roanna said, her voice icy, “Hello, Harry.”

  “Ro.”

  I looked from one to the other. The tension was palpable, as though unspoken acid words were vibrating in the air.

  Roanna took my arm. “Come on.”

  I imagined I could feel the heat of Harry’s stare like a laser beam between my shoulder blades. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” She looked across at me. “Harry has warned you off, I imagine.” Her voice was hard with fury.

  “Not exactly.”

  She stopped to face me. “What does that mean?”

  “He told me there’d been lots before me, and would be lots after me.”

  She was sardonic. “And that I’d break your heart?”

  “He didn’t mention that,” I said, “but there’s a fair chance that you could.”

  Chapter Eleven

  There’d been a computer glitch of some sort in the convention center, and it had to be fixed for tomorrow’s conference sessions, so Roanna had to go back to work. “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” she said.

  The disappointment was like a slap. “I probably need an early night,” I said.

  Her lips twitched. “Sounds good to me.” She handed me a plastic card. “This opens the main security gate. I won’t be any later than nine, I hope. The house is unlocked, so why don’t you go there when you’re ready, have something to eat, take a shower, and I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  “I’ve got my reputation to think of,” I said. “I don’t want you to think I’m easy.” I looked at her mouth. “There are worse things to be. Give me the keycard.”

  * * *

  Jen’s room was down the hall from mine, and I bumped into her on my way to collect a change of clothes. “Hi,” I said, not slowing. I wanted to be in Roanna’s house, smelling her scent, glancing at her books.

  “Den, I wonder if we could talk.”

  I looked at Jen more closely, realizing with a jolt that her eyes were swollen from crying. She gave a little tearful hiccup. “Please, Den.”

  How could I resist an appeal like this? “Your room or mine?” I said, thinking wryly that Jen and I, thanks to our affairs with Aylmer siblings, would be the most likely to have our bedrooms bugged, if indeed bugging was going on.

  “Mine’s closer,” she sniffed.

  Her room was standard issue, just like mine. The furniture was the same; the ubiquitous beige was everywhere, although Jen had a brightly colored rug to break the monotony, and I noted that her ceiling fan looked less geriatric than the dinosaur I had.

  I checked the books and magazines she had on her bedside table, working on the principle that a great deal can be learned from what a person reads. Jen had a bodice-ripper romance and a self-help titled When Your Man Doesn’t Listen. The magazine covered fashion and entertainment.

  Jen snatched a tissue from a box and blew he nose, hard. She plucked out four more, folding them into a wad, and dabbed forlornly at her cheek. Perching on the edge of the bed, she gestured me to the beige plastic chair by the desk.

  Apart from some aberrant people, generally film stars, heavy crying is guaranteed to make a person look unappealing. Jen, unfortunately, was one who looked positively diseased. Her face was blotched in various intensities of red, her nose rivaled Rudolf’s and the whites of her eyes had turned an extra-ordinary pink.

  “Jen, what has upset you?” I said, sympathy and inquiry nicely blended.

  “It’s Quint.” She waved one skinny white arm around in a furious gesture. “I could just kill him Den! Really I could.”

  “That’s awful,” I said, “What’s he done?”

  My question brought a new flood of tears. Through the wad of tissues I could just decipher, “…and he promised.”

  “Promised what?”

  Making a brave attempt at composure, Jen straightened her shoulders. Clearing her throat, she said, “We had these plans. Quint promised he’d take a couple of days off, so I went ahead and swapped around shifts so I’d be covered. We were going to fly to the mainland tonight, and stay at the very best hotel and go shopping and all that. It was going to be lovely, spending all that time together.” Her lips trembled.

  I supposed that Quint’s mother, or Harry, perhaps, had heard of Quint’s plans and put a kibosh on them. “What went wrong?”

  Jen’s face was flushed, but now it was anger coming to the fore. “The trouble is, I’m not important enough to him. If Quint really cared for me, he wouldn’t let some stupid business meeting get in the way.” She looked to me for support. “Would he?”

  I was interested in any business meeting the Aylmers might have. “That’s a bloody shame,” I said with a touch of indignation on Jen’s behalf. “You shouldn’t be treated that way.”

  She was definitely angry now. “I should have stood up fo
r myself, not got upset when he told me we couldn’t go.”

  “What reason did he give?”

  She shook her head impatiently. “Someone’s coming here today. It’s all a big secret, but Quint had to boast about it.” With a flash of insight, she added, “You know, he does like to big-note himself. It was like he was in on something important, and he couldn’t not tell me about it.”

  “So who is this mysterious person?”

  “I never really found out. Quint said something about a wolf, a red wolf. I wasn’t paying that much attention, because I was trying not to cry.”

  I said a soothing word or two, but my heart was jumping in my chest. Red Wolf. The code name for an international terrorist who had bombed buildings and assassinated key players for the past fifteen years. His real name had never been established, and there was only one known fuzzy photograph of his face. He’d never even come close to being caught.

  I needed more confirmation than this. “Are you sure Quint mentioned a red wolf?”

  “I think so. I wasn’t paying much attention. Quint said it was a big secret, and he made me promise not to tell anyone.” She gave me a watery smile, “Well whoops! I’ve gone and told you, Den.”

  “Don’t give it another thought,” I said.

  * * *

  I couldn’t wait until the contact with Alice tomorrow, so I went straight to the bank of pay phones near the rec room. There were people around, but even if someone overheard me, I had to break silence, whatever the risk, if there was any possibility Red Wolf was coming to the resort. I had to take into account that the phones might be tapped, so it was obvious I’d blow it if I used the terrorist’s name.

  When the call picked up I knew that I’d be automatically recorded, and I would use a code of phrases that at least would indicate there was a most-wanted on the island. That wasn’t good enough, so I was vainly trying to work out how I could get some subtle reference into the conversation that would alert ASIO to the name Red Wolf. Ludicrous possibilities that I might weave into the conversation popped into my mind: ruddy dog, russet canine, a wolf in a scarlet sheep’s clothing, keeping the carmine wolf from the door.

  I was clearly getting hysterical, but with very good reason. If I came right out and said Red Wolf and the telephone were tapped, then he’d be long gone and there was a good possibility I would be too.

  The first phone I tried had no dial tone, and I was about to try the second when Seb turned up with an OUT OF ORDER sign. “Bad luck, Den. All the phones are dead on the island. Some problem with the exchange on the mainland.”

  Hell! “Have you got a mobile phone?”

  “It’s hard, but I’m living without one,” he said sardonically. Perhaps my anxiety showed, because he added, “That must be some important call.”

  “Not really.”

  I left him hanging the sign and went back to my room, ticking off my options. Find someone with a mobile and borrow it seemed the best way to go. Then inspiration struck: Roanna’s computer was linked by satellite to the Internet, and she wasn’t home. I’d seen her use her password, so I could log on and send an e-mail message to several key people at once. All that boring time spent memorizing contact information was about to pay off.

  I grabbed a change of clothes and my toothbrush and toilet bag, thinking how much I wished I had a gun. I checked my watch. After seven. I’d really have to move. I opened my door and came face to face with Seb.

  “Hi, again,” he said. His substantial body blocked the way, so I would have to push past him to get out.

  I was in a hurry, but suddenly it didn’t seem wise to make that obvious. “Seb,” I said with a smile. “What a pleasure to see you twice in ten minutes.”

  He looked at my shoulder bag. “And where are you off to?”

  “To sell my body on the street,” I announced. “Not that there’s much of a street available, but I thought I’d lurk near the Jitterbug and hope for the best.”

  “Good luck,” he said, laughing.

  When he didn’t move, I said, “And I can help you with…?”

  Seb ran his hand over his sandy hair, so awkwardly guileless that I was immediately suspicious. Not Seb. Surely, of all people, I could trust him to be what he appeared to be.

  “I was thinking, Den,” he said, “that lots of the guests have mobile phones. If it’s a really important call, I’ll ask around and borrow one for you.”

  Oscar Fallon. In my panic I hadn’t thought of Fallon before. It went against the grain to go for help to the CIA, but if this wasn’t an emergency, what was? “Great idea, Seb. I remember one of the guests has a cell phone, and I’m quite friendly with him.”

  “Who is it?”

  His face was still Seb’s, open and honest, but I couldn’t fully trust him, or anyone else, for that matter. “Oscar Fallon,” I said, taking a chance on Seb because if he helped me find the CIA guy, I could get the alarm out that much faster.

  “Jeez, Den, you’re out of luck again. Mr. Fallon left the island. I know because I took his luggage to the plane.”

  “Hey,” I said, throwing up my hands, “It was guilt trip, anyway. My mum was expecting me to spend some time with her, but I dipped out, and I know she’s upset about it.”

  I heard my trainer’s ghostly voice: Don’t get to complicated.

  “You know how it is,” I went on, “mothers have this built-in talent to make you feel bad. Probably better I don’t ring. It’d just give her more ammunition.”

  “So you’re not going to make the call?”

  “No point really.”

  Seb stepped aside to let me out into the hallway. As I passed him he put an arm around me and gave me a hard squeeze. “Look after yourself,” he said.

  * * *

  My thoughts kept time with my brisk footsteps. If Red Wolf had come to the island, I was faced with a career highlight…or a total disaster. And why would the terrorist be on Aylmer Island?

  My mind zipped through the background briefings I’d had on the Aylmer family’s suspected activities. It was a range of national security nightmares: sophisticated identity fraud, money laundering; the provision of cutting-edge financial and technological information to international radicals and activists.

  For a long time the conventions the resort featured had been under investigation, but evidence of criminal activities that would stand up in court was difficult to find. The Aylmers hosted genuine conferences, organized for reputable companies and organizations, but there were also invitation-only meetings that catered to powerful people—politicians, financiers, political heavyweights.

  Murder-for-hire had not featured in the prospectus, at least not until recently. Bellamy’s death, and then Snead’s drowning, seemed to indicate this policy had changed. Was Farid Sabir the next victim?

  It didn’t seem a big enough project to tempt Red Wolf. Bodyguards or not, the assassination of a political leader was not so difficult, as witness the parade of deaths in the last decades. Something else, then…

  What sort of target would be worth the attention of the very top entrepreneur of terrorism? A key figure, someone whose death would have momentous consequences. What vital world figure was visiting Australia at the moment? Hell, I should have paid more attention to the cascade of memos that crossed my desk.

  Eerie blue light flickered, followed almost immediately by the ear-splitting crack of thunder. I’d been so caught up in my thoughts I’d hardly noticed the worsening weather. A splatter of rain hit my face It wasn’t cold, but the wind had intensified until the palms fronds thrashed.

  Stopping at the bottom of the drive that led to the compound, I considered the fact that once I walked around the first curve I’d be in the view of the surveillance cameras. What to do? I didn’t want to be seen going in, but the keycard Roanna had given me opened that gate at the top of the drive.

  I turned the plain plastic rectangle over in my fingers. On Roanna’s private path to the ocean there was a steel security gate. But no camera
that I could remember. It was logical to assume that this key fitted that gate too.

  I’d take a chance it did. The rain was falling harder, great fat drops that set up spurts of dust where they hit the ground. I checked my watch again. Nearly eight. I broke into a jog. This was going to be close.

  Chapter Twelve

  By the time I’d reached the security gate below Roanna’s place, the storm had achieved a frightening intensity. Lit by bolts of lightning, purple-black clouds boiled overhead, and the shrieking wind was bending coconut palms as though they were insubstantial stems of grass. Rain, blown almost horizontal, stung my face.

  I fumbled with the keycard, knowing that every moment was precious, and if I had to go back to the main gate I might not have time to send a message before Roanna came home. The keycard worked.

  Caught by the wind, the gate slammed open. I fought to close it behind me. The storm was like a thinking thing, a huge malicious force that wanted to thrash air, water and land into subjugation.

  I stumbled up the path, branches lashing at me as if I were running a gauntlet of enraged vegetation. Roanna had left the outside lights on, and they winked at me like beacons through the tumult. I skirted the veranda, which was covered with shredded leaves, and made it to the front door. It was unlocked.

  Inside, the comparative quiet was startling. I was soaked to the skin, and a puddle of water was rapidly forming where I stood. I called out Roanna’s name, sure that she wasn’t there, but feeling, suddenly, like an intruder who was about to betray her trust. No time to change. I took off my wet sneakers and left them by the front door, then I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and dried myself off so I wouldn’t track water wherever I went. Roughly toweling my dripping hair, I went from room to room, double-checking that I was alone.

  Looking out the streaming window toward the Big House, I could see lights lining the pathway as a confused pattern of dots that appeared and disappeared through the lashing branches. No Roanna. No Harry or Quint hurrying down to ask me what the hell I thought I was doing.