Murder Undercover
Page 14
The argument was over; the captain jumped back onto the heaving vessel, followed by the two men. A few moments later Quint and a crewman appeared, each with a machete. Above the thunder of the surf I heard the cat’s engines roar, and saw a plume of steam from the exhaust. Quint went to the bow, the other man to the stern. The crewman signaled, and simultaneously they slashed the mooring lines. Released, the cat barely held her own, poised with engines straining against the might of the running sea. White water broke over the vessel, foaming along the decks. I saw Quint and the crewman clinging to the railings as they struggled inside.
I’d missed the opportunity that every national security force in the West would have wanted me to take. In those few seconds, I could have executed a mass murderer, a man who had sown terror throughout the world. A rush of shame filled me.
I hardly realized what I was doing, or why, but as the catamaran began at last to move away from the dock, I found myself straightening, bursting from my hiding place. The black water yawned beneath, and then I was leaping the widening gap, slipping, falling, onto the narrow side deck of the cat, my elbow fired with pain where I hit it on the railing.
It seemed impossible that I hadn’t been seen, but no one appeared to challenge me. On my knees, water surging around me, I wrenched the gun from my waistband. The thought skated through my mind that it was standard practice to hold this weapon with both hands, but with the slippery surface pitching beneath me, I needed at least one hand free to stop myself from being swept over the side into the hungry ocean.
I looked back. The light on the dock was receding into darkness as the cat picked up speed. Ahead, steps, dimly illuminated, led up to the bridge. Red Wolf would be there with the others, all of them willing the laboring vessel to keep her bows pointed square into the swell. It would be fatal if she wallowed, so that the waves could hit her broadside and break her back.
I made it to the steel steps, slammed my knee against the first one when the cat made a sickening downward plunge, then crawled up the others, clinging with my left hand, the automatic clenched tightly in my right. For visibility, the bridge was surrounded by windows, but now spray streamed across the glass in torrents. Like an orphan in a storm, I peered into the lighted area, and saw his face clearly for the first time.
He was standing beside the captain, feet spread, keeping his balance on the pitching floor with apparent ease. He’d taken off his cap, and through the distortion of the wet glass he looked ordinary, normal. A face you’d see in a thousand rooms, a thousand streets. Just a man, clean-shaven, of no particular nationality or definite age. Everyman, set to destroy the fabric of the political world.
I stared at Red Wolf, memorizing him as though he were an observation test. Quint stood next to him, and I used that to estimate his height. Shorter than me, lightly built, with hands large for his slight frame.
Suddenly aware of the automatic clenched in my hand, I measured my chance of getting a good shot at him. It was possible, but it was likely to be a suicide mission. Besides Red Wolf, I would have to take down three—Quint, a crewman and the captain. And with no one at the helm, the cat would be at the mercy of the sea.
I squeezed my eyes shut, seeing sunlight and the faces of people I loved. I opened my eyes, cool, determined. I’d do it.
The decision was taken from me. Quint turned his head and looked in my direction. I saw his mouth drop open, then he was pointing, shouting. The captain swung her head around, startled. I jumped away from the window as the catamaran smacked into a huge wave. She shuddered, staggered, bows down, then rose up, up, until I skidded backward down the metal steps.
My head hit the deck. I had a blurred impression of someone vaulting down from the bridge, then Quint was on me. I’d lost the gun. His weight on my chest, I turned my head, frantic to find it. Its compact black shape slid out of reach, then dropped over into the sea.
Quint had me by the throat. His face contorted, he slammed my head on the deck. He was screaming “Cunt!” over and over again. I went for his eyes, and he jerked his head back.
Over his shoulder I saw the dark shape of a monstrous wave looming, curling with open mouth to devour us all. Locked together in an obscene embrace, Quint and I were buried in an avalanche of water, then as the cat yawed, we were swept helplessly into the boiling sea.
I surfaced, gasping for air. I had a confused impression that Quint had clutched at me as we had been pulled down, but the current had torn me away from him. I looked around, frantic to find the catamaran. I caught a glimpse of her lights, as, mortally wounded, she slid sideways down the side of a breaking wave. Then everything was dark and I was alone in black sea, fighting for every breath, tossed like a tiny cork on an infinite ocean.
Swimming was not an option; just keeping my head above the surface took every bit of energy I had. If the cat had cleared the island, then I was lost, there was no way I would survive long enough to be washed onto the mainland shore. I kicked off my shoes and jeans before their weight could drag me down, then concentrated on staying afloat.
All sense of time had left me. I was still wearing my watch, and ridiculously I squinted at it in the darkness. Would it be light soon? If I could see land, then I would have at least the hope that I might survive. It seemed to me that the sky was growing lighter, that the sea was becoming defined, its face more terrifying as I began to make out its ever-changing features.
Over the shriek of the wind I became conscious of a deep pounding. Surf, smashing against something substantial—rocks, or reefs, or sand. My frail body cringed. At least in the heaving water I was cushioned, tossed in a rough salt embrace, but the frenzied waves could pulp me against a hard surface.
A dark gray dawn was breaking over a fierce gray ocean. Lifted high by a surge of water, I saw the line of breakers, and with a shock of joy realized that it was Aylmer Island, and that I was being swept toward the mangroves at the end of the beach. A surge of energy I didn’t know I had got me swimming, my efforts laughable against the swell, but slowly I began to make headway.
Months, years later, it seemed, I was grabbing at mangrove trunks, uncaring as I was rammed against them, my skin abraded by rough surfaces. I crawled on hands and knees out of the water, out of the mangroves, and sank, panting, onto a tangled mess of vegetation left by the storm at the margin of the beach. No opulent couch could feel more luxurious.
I tried to sit up. There was something farther along in the mangrove trees, something driven by the sea deep into their embrace. I couldn’t imagine why I hadn’t seen it before. Like a broken toy, the catamaran lay on her side, one pontoon split and gaping.
I tried to get up. Someone had to look for Red Wolf. I was conscious someone had come up behind me. I looked vainly for a weapon, then turned to face the threat.
“Jesus, Denise,” said Pete. “I reckon you’re to blame for the fact the island’s now a military camp.”
Chapter Fifteen
I was on leave, sitting in a four-wheel drive overlooking the wonderful scenery of Tasmania’s most famous national park. The peak of Cradle Mountain rose above us, birds called to each other, wildflowers bloomed. The two other tourists who shared the vehicle with me were chatting to the driver, exclaiming over the beauties outside. One, a cheerful American with one of those Southern accents that sound put on but aren’t, clicked away with his elaborate camera as he talked.
I wanted silence, so I climbed out of the vehicle and wandered away to lean against the massive trunk of a eucalyptus that soared high into the cloudless sky. It had seemed a good idea to get away, after the pressure of the past months, so I had found a small guided tour and had booked myself on it. The fact that Tasmania was an island state was somewhat ironic, as I wished I were on another island altogether. A much smaller one, and more than two thousand kilometers to the north. I could shut my eyes and see the curve of the beach, the coconut palms swaying, the line of Roanna’s jaw…
Let it go, Denise.
The arrests were accompli
shed, the furor in the media abating as other sensational stories took center stage. There’d be another huge boost to the story when the trials began, but that was a long time off, as the evidence was scattered in a dozen countries.
I’d been debriefed so often I was tired of telling my story. The one amusing point was when I met Oscar Fallon, not, of course, his real name. He’d been furious that he hadn’t been informed that an ASIO plant was on the island, and didn’t even relax his grim expression when I pointed out with a sunny smile that it was only fair, since the Central Intelligence Agency had neglected to tell ASIO that he was there. Fallon had been undercover as part of a CIA investigation of Lloyd Snead’s activities, and had had the embarrassment of having the target of his assignment murdered under his very nose. But I suspected that the real reason Oscar was miffed had to do with the fact that I had gained the lion’s share of the attention, because I was the only agent who had seen Red Wolf up close and could identify him.
Red Wolf. His body hadn’t been found, and it was assumed that he had remained aboard the crippled catamaran, along with the captain. The crewman had drowned—his body had been found—and the captain claimed that her passenger had been washed overboard too, but the general belief was that the terrorist had survived, both he and the captain staying with the craft as it was battered by the storm and then beached on the shore. Under arrest, she’d steadfastly refused to discuss the matter, claiming complete ignorance of his true identity. It seemed impossible that the man had yet again evaded capture, as within a few hours the island had been under military control, but by then Red Wolf had melted away, as though he had never been there at all.
Moreen, George and Harry Aylmer were being held without bail, the list of charges long: treason, murder, attempted murder, kidnaping, extortion, fraud, and, in a nice final touch, tax evasion.
Quint Aylmer had escaped justice: His body had been washed ashore on a mainland beach two days after the storm had blown itself out.
Cynthia Urquhart had been indicted for Snead’s murder after Tony, the Aylmer sons’ unpleasant friend, had rolled over for a lighter charge, freely giving evidence that he had tampered with Snead’s scuba tanks at her request. She was also under investigation for other suspicious deaths in America and Canada. Seb, Bruce, and lesser players had all been charged with various offenses.
In future court appearances, I would be a witness for the prosecution against many of them. It was a daunting prospect, with trials stretching years into the future.
And Roanna? She remained free, as there was insufficient evidence to charge her. Dark comments from my superiors indicated the consensus was that she knew exactly what was going on but hadn’t actively participated. I wasn’t so sure, or perhaps I didn’t want to believe that of her.
I’d seen Roanna that morning on the island when, so exhausted that I could hardly speak, I’d been interrogated by the military commander who had landed by helicopter with his commando force to secure the resort. I’d asked to meet with Roanna, and I’d been taken to the room where she was under guard. White-faced and drawn, she’d still smiled when she saw me. We hadn’t been left alone, and we’d only spoken for a few minutes before I was whisked away to the mainland where agents were waiting to extract every particle of information I could give on Red Wolf.
I’d seen her twice more after that, both at committal hearings for her parents and brother Harry. We’d only exchanged a few words, but at the last one, just a few weeks ago, Roanna had impulsively put her hand on my arm and said, “I’m going back to the island to run the resort. Will you visit me sometime?”
Before I could reply, she’d shaken her head ruefully. “I’m sorry, that was stupid of me. I was just part of your job.”
I had looked after her as she’d walked away, thinking how she had only known me as Denise Hunter, the not-so-expert bartender.
The tour guide broke into my thoughts. “Ready to move on, Den?” he said. “We’ve Twisted Lake to see before the sun goes down.”
“I’ll be a moment.”
I turned my back on them and took out the little cellular phone that had been my present to myself for my birthday. I didn’t need to look up the number: I’d gone to punch it in a dozen times before and had stopped.
“Roanna?” I said. “It’s Denise. Denise Cleever.”
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