by Claire McNab
The computer was on, the monitor resting. The screen sprang to life as soon as I touched the mouse, glowing with warmth, with reassurance. I slid onto the seat and guided the cursor. Outside a ferocious blast seemed about to smash into the room. I looked over my shoulder. In all this racket I’d never hear someone behind me.
Was the satellite dish secure? The storm was fierce enough to tear it up and send it, wires trailing, into the air. Or perhaps Harry and Quint, pliers in hand, were just about to sever the connection.
It wasn’t cold, but I was shivering. I called up Roanna’s Internet provider, keyed in her password, Roanna, and watched the screen change. She had mail: I didn’t care. I hit the Send Message command.
I’d been so intent on getting there, that I’d hardly thought what I would write. What about, Help! Red Wolf is here and I can’t cope. True, but not what a cool, professional agent would send.
In the Send to box I filled in the ASIO control, as well as every ASIO person I could think of, with no attempt to put them in order of superiority. This was no time to worry about hurt feelings. I stared at the spot where the cursor blinked at the beginning of the heading line. Extreme Violation I typed. It wasn’t entirely accurate, but would get immediate attention, as it indicated there had been a fatal security breach.
Branches rattled at the window. My breath caught in my throat as something skittered across the veranda—a branch, a palm frond. It could have been a person, and I was wasting time trying to compose the perfect message.
Most urgent advice: Bed Wolf, I typed. I groaned. Obviously a Freudian slip. I corrected it to Red. Okay, be brief and to the point.
Most urgent advice: Red Wolf on Aylmer Island as guest in Aylmer house. Repeat, Red Wolf. Potential of positive ID high. Imperative extreme urgent action initiated. Subject may leave at any time. This channel NOT secure. Do NOT reply to this e-mail.
I signed it with my code name, which changed at midnight every day. Gypsum. Tomorrow it would be Silica.
Sitting in my wet clothes, I shuddered. I hit Send. After one long moment, the screen declared, Message Sent.
I let out my breath in a long sigh, then did it again. The second time I remembered another e-mail address to add—naturally someone who’d be slighted to note he wasn’t in the first group—headed the message Backup Notification, worded it differently, in case there was any ambiguity I hadn’t detected in the first one, and sent it up to the satellite riding silent space high above the storm.
Hunching my shoulders as though some intruder had entered and was poised behind me, I pulled up Sent Messages and deleted any record that my e-mail had been electronically mailed. I quickly scanned the messages that Roanna had sent and received. Nothing jumped out at me. I looked over my shoulder. No one was there.
I had more to do before Roanna returned: Mop up the wet chair, the floor, so that there’d no sign I’d been at the computer; do a quick search of the desk, the filing cabinets; change into dry clothes; look for a gun. I had to have a weapon…
I was shivering so hard my teeth were chattering. Clothes first. I’d just put on faded jeans and was pulling one of Roanna’s T-shirts over my head as I came into the main room when the front door was flung open.
“Jesus Christ!” said Roanna, blown in by a savage blast of wet air. “It’s bloody wet out there.”
She shook herself like a dog, splattering the surrounding area with droplets, smiled at me, and with one stride had grabbed me and kissed me. Sex, love, were impossible to think of while an international terrorist was only a short walk away up the hill. My mind was quite clear on that point. My body wasn’t. My lips opened under her hard kiss.
After all, I thought fuzzily, what was there for me to do? ASIO would advise the nearest authorities, including the military; special support groups would be mobilized; airports would be monitored; and, if any vessels could brave the storm, the coast guard would set up a cordon around the island.
So what could Denise Cleever, undercover agent, actually do? Not a thing, except take this gorgeous woman to bed and wait for the cavalry to ride to the rescue.
“I’m starving,” said Roanna. “How about scrambled eggs?”
Immediately my mouth watered. “Terrific. I’ll do them while you get changed.”
While she was in the bedroom I slipped into the computer alcove and mopped the floor and chair. Outside, the wind howled even louder, and rain hit the window near me with the force of flung pebbles.
I was back in the kitchen when Roanna came out, brushing her hair. “This storm’s going to put a dent in the President’s plans,” she said.
I stopped beating the eggs. “President of what?”
“Don’t you keep up with the news? President of the good ole US of A.”
I must have gaped at her, because she laughed and said, “It’s a lightning trip. He’s been in New Zealand for a Pacific nations economic summit, and instead of flying home, he’s changed his plans to include a quick visit to Australia, namely the Daintree Rain Forest.”
This wasn’t far from Aylmer Island. “Where is he now?” I said.
Roanna raised her eyebrows at my urgent tone. “I didn’t realize you were a fan.”
“Just a bit interested.”
“Can’t help you much. Maybe the whole plan’s been abandoned, although the forecast is that the storm should blow itself out.”
“Oh yeah?” I said, as a fresh assault shook the house.
“If you like, we can pick up the news.” She flicked on the television. “We get a zillion channels through the dish.”
“Please make the toast,” I said, trying to keep an eye on the television headline news whilst pouring the beaten eggs into a pan.
The American President’s visit was the third story. He was shown playing golf in the rain with selected Aussie politicians, grinning cheerfully whilst his grim bodyguards trudged the course looking wet and unhappy. The effervescent voice of the announcer burbled on about the President’s obsession with golf and how he was determined not to let the vagaries of weather stop any of his plans. In fact, she added with admiring warmth, his outing to the Daintree Rain Forest with the Prime Minister would go ahead, even if it was still raining heavily.
The lights flickered, then steadied. Roanna smiled across at me. “The power could go out, but don’t worry—I’m sure we’ll find something to do in the dark.”
I smiled in turn, but my thoughts were buzzing about something entirely different. Of course ASIO would put two and two together and realize that the President would be Red Wolf’s primary target. I reassured myself that security for any leading politician, even in a safe country like Australia, would be very tight, anyway, but in my mind’s eye I could see the last political assassination Red Wolf had engineered. It had been logistically and technically a masterpiece, and along with the intended victims, the bomb had killed over fifty bystanders.
It didn’t have to be a bomb. This international terrorist had used any number of different techniques, and he had always overseen the hit itself, then escaped like smoke into the air.
“If you don’t stir that,” Roanna admonished me, indicating the pan on the stove, “we’re going to have a fat, shapeless omelet instead of scrambled eggs.”
“Sorry.”
I didn’t hear the door open, just felt the wet blast of air. I turned around, pan in one hand, wooden spoon in the other. My heart jumped sharply.
“Hello girls,” said Eddie Trebonus. The gun he held was very familiar to me. A snub-nosed, double-action Smith & Wesson .38 automatic. Practical, deadly, and efficient.
Chapter Thirteen
Eddie Trebonus closed the door behind him. Water glistened on his face, and his flabby body was swathed in an outsize black raincoat from which water streamed onto the floor.
The gun was pointed at me, not Roanna. I glanced at her. She looked astonished, and then anger took over. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Eddie? What is this? The Wild West? Put the gun away.”<
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I measured this distance between Eddie and me. The breakfast bar was between us, so I had to get around it to have a clear path to him. Putting down the pan and spoon, and having the presence of mind to turn off the gas, I quavered, “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you do, Den.” He was swollen with power and arrogance. “You understand perfectly.”
Okay, how would Denise Hunter act now? I moved a little farther toward the end of the breakfast bar. To Roanna I said, “He won’t hurt us, will he?”
“Not if he wants to continue living,” Roanna ground out.
It was important for me to appear helpless, weak. Eddie had to be off guard, if only for a moment. Tears would have been a help, but my eyes were resolutely dry. Besides, something in me rebelled at crying, or pleading, and also I had to admit that I didn’t want to look a total wimp in front of Roanna.
I took another step. “Please, Mr. Trebonus, you’re frightening me,” I said.
“You’re not frightening me, Eddie, you stupid bastard.” Roanna’s voice cracked like a whip. “Get out of here before I call my mother, and this really gets out of hand.”
He was amused. “It was your mother who sent me,” he said. His attention switched to me. “Now, Den, I can be nasty or nice. All depends on you.”
Denise Hunter, if she existed, wouldn’t be able to believe what was happening to her. “I can’t believe this,” I said “What have I ever done to you, Mr. Trebonus?”
His thick lips split in a smile. “Oh, honey, you can call me Eddie.” His wet shoes squished as he took a step in my direction. “We’re going to get to know each other very well before the night is out.”
“This has gone far enough.” Roanna was flushed with rage. “Get out of my house.”
“No deal. Now shut up, Ro, or I’ll have to get rough with you.”
There were two of us against him, and if Roanna had had the right training, we could work in tandem and probably disarm him without anyone being hurt. As it was, I presumed she knew little about self-defense, so she would be a liability if I made a move on Eddie because I couldn’t be sure how she’d react.
I’d chance it. I couldn’t be sure Eddie would remain alone, and the odds would most certainly be against me if he had backup. I took a deep breath. In the gym, disarming exercises were quite fun, but now the whole maneuver had a desperate edge that made my stomach flutter and my hands sweat.
“This is too bloody much!” Roanna moved toward Eddie, as if she were about to demand he hand over his weapon.
The sound of the shot was absolutely deafening. My ears rang as though my head was a bell that had been hit by a hammer. Eddie had fired into the floor, and Roanna seemed frozen in mid step.
I whimpered and put my hands to my face. “Don’t hurt us,” I cried, my voice tremulous. “We’ll do whatever you say.”
I was around the breakfast bar now. A couple of strides, and he’d be mine. His throat, his eyes, his balls. Rage was tightening my muscles, flowing like fire through my veins.
“Eddie, this is insane.”
“Shut up, Ro.”
Get him talking. What a cliche that was, but like all cliches it held an element of truth. “What is it you think I’ve done?” I asked, clasping my hands. “This has got to be some dreadful mistake. Just tell me what it is. What am I supposed to have done?”
Eddie’s pleased expression showed how much he enjoyed the note of supplication in my voice.
“We had our suspicions from the start,” he said grandly. “You made mistakes.”
“Mistakes about what? I don’t understand.”
Eddie shifted his stance slightly, getting comfortable so he could deliver an explanation of why he was so clever, and I was so dumb.
“Your first big mistake was contacting Oscar Fallon.”
I was genuinely dumbfounded. I hadn’t known the guy was CIA. I’d spoken to him by chance. “Who?” I said.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know he’s a CIA agent.”
Looking bewildered, I said, “CIA?” My voice rose on the last letter to add to the impression of stupefaction.
Roanna looked at me, then back to Eddie. “What’s this about?”
“On the beach,” said Eddie, “you thought it looked like a little chat to a stranger, didn’t you? Well, we were watching.” He gave a self-satisfied grunt. “Fallon’s up at the Big House, and he’ll talk, like you will, with the right persuasion.”
“Jesus,” said Roanna, “this is like a bad movie.”
“Shut the hell up, Ro. I mean it.”
He had relaxed a little, thought of himself as being in control of two weak women. Ready, steady…
The door crashed open. Quint stood there, his yellow slicker dripping, his wet hair plastered to his skull. In his hands he held a double-barreled shotgun I felt a hysterical giggle stall in my throat. This was like a bad movie.
“Fuck it, Eddie,” snarled Quint, “I might have known you couldn’t pull it off by yourself.” He glared at Roanna. “You and your fucking girlfriends. Mum warned you before.”
He gestured to me with the shotgun. “Up to the Big House, quick smart, and don’t give me any trouble or I’ll blow you away.” He aimed a tight-lipped smile at Roanna. “You, too, Sis.”
“And if I don’t, you’ll shoot me?” Roanna’s tone was incredulous.
“Shoot you? Hell no. But I’ll smash your face in if I have to. This isn’t a game, Ro. Get moving.”
With Quint’s arrival, Eddie had shrunk to second banana. The automatic drooped in his hand, and his expression was disconsolate. I thought seriously of going for his gun, but Quint was watching me, mean-eyed, the light glinting on the long barrel of the shotgun. I had a flash of a hot sunny day skeet shooting, and Morrie Bellamy falling, his cranium shattered.
Quint said to me, “You first, and don’t try making a run for it, because it’ll be the last thing you do.”
I believed him. He was edgy, excited, as if holding a woman at the point of a gun was a charge. I waited until the door was open and the rain was swirling into the room before I spoke. “It’s raining,” I said, as though avoiding a drenching was the most important issue of the moment.
“Get going.”
I was barefoot, and the ground outside was littered with debris from the storm. If any opportunity occurred to escape in the darkness, I needed shoes on my feet. Indicating my wet sneakers beside the front door, I said with a mulish note in my voice, “I want to put my shoes on first.”
Quint gave an irritated grunt. “Hurry up,” he said.
The sneakers were cold and heavy with water. I laced them on with clumsy fingers, then Quint shoved me out into the storm. I went first up the pathway, Quint jabbing the shotgun into my back every few steps. I screwed up my eyes as the rain, blown by the weight of the wind, peppered my face like a blast of sand. Glancing back, I could see Roanna had fallen in after her brother, with Eddie bringing up the rear.
If anyone spoke, I didn’t hear it. The storm was ferocious, a continuous wet roar that seemed to shake the ground. My mind was running scenarios as I stumbled up the path: make a wild break for it now and hope for the best; go along with it all and confess; play dumb to the end; plead with Moreen Aylmer for my release; threaten them that ASIO would not rest until they were arrested.
ASIO would realize that something had happened to me when I didn’t make the contact with Alice tomorrow. Right now, no one knew I was a prisoner, and even if that were known, the capture of Red Wolf would have priority.
A branch slashed my cheek. I was totally soaked, my jeans and T-shirt sticking to me like a second skin, and Roanna, who had no protection either, must be as miserable as I was. I trudged up the incline, the shotgun smashing into my ribs at regular intervals, hating the whole experience, yet not anxious to get to the Big House, where I was fearful some terrible experience awaited me.
We came through a side entrance into the central courtyard, and the noise of the storm immediately drop
ped to a manageable clamor. The courtyard was streaming with water, the dolphin fountain blurred by gray sheets of falling rain. It was nothing like Saturday’s scene. If only I could be there again, with the soft music, people talking and laughing, the soft wind blowing, and Roanna in that black dress, poised, enigmatic, infinitely desirable.
I turned my head to see her. She stared back at me, bedraggled but glowing with fury. “I’ll sort it all out,” she said to me. “Don’t worry.”
Quint laughed. “Sure, Ro. You always get what you want, don’t you?”
“What I want is simple. That you get the hell out of my life.”
Quint narrowed his eyes at her. “Harry wants to see you.” He jerked his head at Eddie. “Take her. I’ll look after this other bitch.” He indicated a door to me. “In there.”
I obeyed, keeping my body language full of fear. “Please don’t hurt me.”
We were in a wide and thickly carpeted corridor, hushed after the racket outside. Paintings, each carefully lit, lined the walls. There was the smell of money, of privilege, in the air-conditioned air.
Moreen Aylmer was waiting for us in a room for which the word elegant was far too gross. The walls were ivory, the carpet white, the pale furniture so finely drawn it seemed insubstantial. I took a small pleasure that I was dripping water in this pristine place.
“Denise,” she said, as though welcoming a guest. “Come in.”
“There’s been some mistake,” I said in a trembling voice, gesturing toward Quint and the shotgun. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
A shadow crossed her face. “Is that gun really necessary, dear?”
“Yes, Mother, it is.”
She lifted her shoulders in a well-bred shrug. “Very well.” Her attention came back to me. “I’m afraid you’ve been very foolish, Denise, if that is your name.”
I looked confused. “Of course it’s my name. What else would it be?”
Quint snorted. “She’ll lie, of course. Let me do something to help her remember the truth.”