“I’ve never fired one before,” Arnold said, lifting the handgun as if it were a rattlesnake.
“We are not going to pull the trigger,” the accountant told him. “Rule number one. Keep the weapon pointed away from you—and me. I want you to aim it at an imaginary assailant in front of you.”
Arnold glanced up at his instructor and leveled the gun at the opposite wall. He wished more than anything he had taken the early morning walk to the observatory.
“Okay,” the accountant said, moving closer. “I can see you’re a little nervous. This is to be expected.”
He leaned closer to Arnold’s chair.
“What you have in your hand is standard issue for federal agents. Notice—it’s not too heavy.”
“But what do you want me to do with it?” Arnold said, his voice cracking as he stared at the weapon.
“First, learn to hold it with confidence. You must point it like this. Ah—wait a moment.”
Arnold glanced at Burns and saw with a degree of curiosity the man appeared to set the timer on his watch.
“I must follow the correct protocol,” he explained to Arnold. Burns reached into his briefcase to pull out a pair of thin leather gloves, slipping them on and slapping his palms together.
“Right then. Let’s get started. May I?” He rearranged Arnold’s fingers on the trigger.
“Is there a safety on this thing?” Arnold asked. From outside the cottage, he thought heard the shriek of a parrot. As always, in this forsaken continent the calls of the wildlife sounded more like someone in distress.
“It has no safety as such,” Burns said. “Just a decocker. You must always treat a gun as if it’s loaded,” Burns continued.
Arnold stiffened at the sound of the mechanism chambering a round. “Isn’t that…”
He was amazed by the strength and agility of the accountant’s hands over his own as they flicked the weapon around. Too fast for him to notice the muzzle now pressed into his chest.
The acoustics of the room reduced the report to the level of a popping balloon. A single soft open-ended bullet smashed its way through Arnold’s rib cage and split wide, hot metal shredding the heart and surrounding tissue.
The accountant had thrown one arm around the scientist’s head as if the two were the best of pals. Burns was careful to angle himself away from the mess, waiting until the spasms stopped before he let the lifeless body fall forward onto the desktop.
The fist-size hole in Arnold’s left shoulder blade dribbled over the keyboard. There was a lot of blood. It ran in rivulets down his arm and off the end of the gun clenched tightly in his hand where it collected in a widening pool under his chair.
Burns retrieved the memory stick and dropped it on top of the crumpled paper bag inside his briefcase. He rearranged the items on the desk to resemble the state it was in before when he walked into the room and pulled the chair he had sat in back to its original position against the wall. All the while he whistled tunelessly.
When he was finished, he turned to walk out the door and hesitated, swearing under his breath as if someone else was present and alive to hear him. He walked back to the desk and picked up the carton and shoved the loops of paper back inside. Then, he tossed it onto the seat where he had found it.
Burns stopped his watch after he dropped the briefcase in the back of the SUV. He clenched his jaw as he was want to do on a job. This was not his best time. Cost cutting by management was also impacting a mission like this one with its high-value target. It was a shame, he thought. A team of four, not counting the two in the work truck at the foot of the hill would have been optimal for this kind of operation. Perhaps he might do well to take his retirement sooner rather than later. Before he had a real mistake on his hands. He eyed the other two as they trotted up to the vehicle.
Kowalski was a striking specimen; a tall athletic woman with a remarkable symmetrical shape to her head that was accentuated by a military burr cut. She might have been a model if she had been born anywhere but in a small Polish village. She grabbed a bottle of water from inside the cab.
“Kids all settled?” Burns asked.
She screwed the lid back on and threw the bottle onto the back seat.
“All put to bed, except for Boulos,” she said. “We couldn’t find him.”
The accountant glanced at Joyce as he stood catching his breath, sucking in lungfuls of oxygen. The kid was too young and had too much energy to expend to suit a mission of this kind. They should have given him more time to mature, soldiering on a more conventional battlefield. But over the past year, Burns had come to the conclusion it was better not to complain about who he was given and simply make do. He turned back to Kowalski.
“Are you sure they weren’t hiding him?”
She flashed her teeth at Burns. It wasn’t a smile.
“We asked around—several times. They would have said if they knew.”
“Looks like we really fucked up on this one,” Burns muttered.
He watched them empty the magazines of their weapons and tossed the lot into an open carry bag on the back seat. Joyce closed the zip and humped it over his shoulder. He glanced over at Burns.
“Take it into the cottage and scatter them around his desk,” Burns told him.
“There’s just the one desk, right?” Joyce asked.
“The one he’s leaking all over. You can’t miss it.”
“You want me to burn the cottage?”
“Negative on the cottage.”
Joyce gave a nod and strode off to Arnold’s cottage.
Burns reached through the window for the tactical throat mic and headset sitting on the dash. The most important item on his cleanup list was missing. Could it be their intel was wrong? There were going to be repercussions. He repeated the call sign and waited.
“Kids are settled,” he said when he received the reply. “Housework not complete. Dad is out. Over.”
He closed his eyes, feeling the trickle of cold sweat down the back of his neck.
“Affirmative. I repeat. Dad is out. We missed him. Over.”
He drew his hand down his face as he listened to the reply.
“Yeah—I know. Roger that. We are on our way. Accountant out.”
He pulled off the mic and threw it onto the dash. Taking a yellow plastic vial from his shirt pocket, he shook out a capsule and placed it on his tongue.
Kowalski squinted up at him. She waved a fresh bottle of spring water at him. “Here,” she said.
He caught the bottle and took several gulps before tipping the rest at his feet. He screwed the cap back on before dropping the empty bottle on the back seat and hopping in behind the steering wheel.
Joyce ran up the path as if hell itself was following close behind him.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” The kid shouted.
Burns slammed the driver’s door shut, sneering at Joyce as he sprinted to the vehicle. He started the engine and reversed hard.
As Burns pulled away from the cottage, Kowalski held the back door open for Joyce, the kid just making the leap into the cab.
The incendiary devices detonated in rapid succession behind them as they sped away from the observatory.
With a thick pall of smoke curling into the sky, the two workmen at the bottom of the peak collected the road signs and threw them onto the tray of the truck. They didn’t look up when the SUV roared by, its tires spinning for several seconds as Burns took the corner under acceleration.
The stench of melted rubber lingered in the bushes on the side of the road before it was finally dissipated in the unseasonable breeze that swept across the outback.
Tasmanian Devil
The captain’s calm and collected voice read the imperative to the passengers and flight crew just as he did every time prior to touching down in Canberra.
“This announcement is a friendly reminder from the Australian Capital Territory. The federal government requires all disembarking passengers to have their Australian Federatio
n Cards ready for inspection. You are required to submit to the identification process when passing through the border-guard inspection gates. And—on behalf of my flight crew, I would like to take this opportunity to welcome you to the hub of the nation. We wish your stay with us to be happy and secure.”
Out in the immigration area, Storm followed the directions of a woman in a crisp uniform pointed her finger at the carpet in front of the black and chrome panel. Storm stepped into the red square before the flashing block colors. An orange arrow pointed to the shape of two green hands. He complied, and the parameters snapped to the outline of his palm and fingers. He blinked as a laser penetrated his pupils, measuring the unique pattern of his retinas.
“You are required to take a second scan,” an automated voice told him. “Please do not move while the scan is being performed.”
When the second scan was done Storm stepped back from the device, blinking his irritated eyes. He saw the man beside the security booth was dressed as if he worked in an office with a clean white shirt, and a crisp, charcoal pinstripe suit. And yet, he looked nothing like anyone Storm had seen who might sit behind a desk all day.
The cut of the man’s tailored suit accentuated his athletic build, and while he was not tall, he struck an assertive posture that made up for his lack of height. Even the tilt of his head communicated a predatory quality. Like that of a raptor checking a living target before taking its first bite.
The government agent rested his fingertips on the shiny black leather belt in his trousers. His bunched shoulders caused his jacket to ride a fraction too far up his back. The narrowed ice blue eyes constantly flicked over each and every move the boy made.
The man’s stare reminded Storm of nothing so much as a hungry Tasmanian Devil sizing up a fat possum it had trapped on the ground.
He waited for the security officer to return his ID card, but she didn’t. Instead, she was focused on the next arrival standing behind him in the line.
The Tasmanian Devil waved Storm’s card in the air to attract his attention.
“Mr. Elliot,” the man said with a relaxed and even friendly tone. “Follow me.”
Storm stayed close behind the agent as they made their way through the crowded terminal and into the parking lot, stopping beside a late model, dark blue Commodore.
“I’m Roy Davenport,” the man said, turning on his heels and flashing a smile at Storm.
Davenport opened the passenger door. “Hop inside, mate.”
It was easy enough for Storm to convince himself everything was fine. The car was comfortable. Better even than Franchette’s. There seemed nothing threatening about the driver. Storm refused an offered cigarette, but the gesture helped him to relax. He wondered how Michael’s old friend, an astronomer wielded such influence over the security staff at Canberra Airport.
“There’s been a change of plans,” Davenport told him once they were on the highway taking them to the city. “You will be meeting with Mr. Martyn Boas. I am taking you directly to his office.”
He glanced at Storm’s worried face.
“Relax, mate. It’s all good.”
The flagpole sat at the apex of a steel pyramid atop the building. It was unmistakable. Storm had seen it flash onto the screen before every public announcement on the national news broadcast Stella liked to watch most evenings.
Davenport turned the car onto a ramp to descend beneath Parliament House, and into a cavernous parking lot.
“Is he meeting me here?” Storm asked once he was standing outside the car. “Is he a PM?”
“Have you been here before?” Davenport asked in reply.
“No way!” Storm exclaimed. “Never thought I would be either!”
“Welcome to the place your elected leaders gather,” Davenport commented with a wry smile.
Storm thought he heard Davenport add under his breath, ‘and the unelected’.
“Sorry?” Storm asked.
But the agent was already standing before the opening doors of an elevator.
A stout, red-faced man emerged from inside and strode out in a brisk fashion followed by a reporter and her cameraman in hot pursuit.
“Hey, wasn’t that the minister of education or finance?” Storm asked.
Inside the elevator, Davenport winked in reply. He passed a keycard through a slot in a metal ledge set beneath the floor buttons.
An elderly man raised his cane and gave a sharp cough to attract their attention.
Davenport stared straight ahead and the old boy stepped back with an agility that surprised even he as the doors almost closed on him.
The descent was rapid, and Storm felt his stomach lift.
“You get used to it,” Davenport said when he saw the boy’s face.
“How many levels down was that?” Storm asked when an electronic voice announced they had arrived.
“I can’t say,” Davenport replied.
The corridor seemed little different to the interior of the elevator. A soft blue glow reflected off an arching metallic ceiling, the light emanating from the metal surface itself.
“Seriously?” Storm asked as they stepped into the corridor. “You can’t say?”
Davenport gave a single nod of his head. “Seriously.”
“Is it a secret?” Storm asked in surprise.
Storm gazed at Davenport who was already several paces ahead of him. The man no longer carried the cocky brash quality he had up until they left the elevator. He seemed to bend slightly as if carrying a weight on his back. No, it was more like Davenport was adopting the servile attitude of a butler who hurried to attend to his lord’s bidding.
The corridor ended at a tall metal entranceway to a room that looked like it might be a reception area to an office. It was sparsely furnished with few features Storm could make out in the dim light.
Davenport took a single step over the entranceway and pointed to a chair and a small table placed before a large desk.
“Sit down.”
“You aren’t staying,” Storm asked.
“You want me to hold your hand?” Davenport asked without smiling.
“No. I meant…”
“Mr. Boas won’t be long,” Davenport said.
He stepped back out into the corridor, the door closing silently behind him.
The room was larger than it seemed on entering. A tall opaque window, framed in a gothic arch, was set into the opposite wall. The glow of a light shone from behind it. It was the only ornamentation in an otherwise cold functional space. The center of the room was dominated by a large dark desk with a smooth surface and contoured shape that gave it an almost liquid appearance, but the material did not reflect any of the little light there was present.
Storm sat in the chair and waited for his host to appear.
Platinum Blonde
The tallest man Storm had ever seen in his life simply appeared as if he had walked through the wall.
“Davenport got you here safely,” the man said. “I’m pleased.”.
Martyn Boas was just over seven feet from the bottom of his heels to the top of his head. The light filtered through the arched window behind the giant gave the startling Scandinavian-platinum hair on the large head the appearance of a halo.
With Martyn’s presence in the room, the light had grown brighter. Storm noticed the face of his host was entirely without lines. It was the kind of face that might belong to an extremely healthy seventy-year-old or a thirty-year-old equally. He really could not tell. There was an absence of every mark of age Storm might expect to find in anyone older than thirty years. And yet the man must surely be that, otherwise, how would he come to have an office deep below Australia’s Parliament House?
The man’s alabaster white skin had a sheen. His eyes were large and crystal clear. And he was not only striking physically but also in the way he spoke. His voice had the broad twang of someone from the Warrumbungle Region.
It was the kind of voice Storm heard each and every day in and around C
oona.
The giant stepped around the large desk and produced a small black wallet, tapping it with the side of his hand. A single thick, glossy white card fell into his palm and he placed it on the table beside Storm.
“Thanks,” Storm said, and not knowing quite what to do with the card he slipped it into his back pocket.
“That’s my business card,” said Martyn smiling broadly.
He did not appear the least bit slighted that his business card went straight into the boy’s back pocket without so much as a cursory read. “You might want to learn something of my background,” he suggested.
“Oh,” Storm said. He retrieved the card from his pocket and read the text.
“Martyn Boas. President of Consolidated Rare Earth Corp.”
“Along with other companies I own. I have interests in mining and what have you—some unrelated areas,” the giant said with the smallest shrug as he walked behind the desk that now appeared to me more like a console to Storm.
In the low light Storm thought the chair behind the console appeared to grow around and behind Martyn, the instant the giant took his seat.
“I apologize if my appearance shocks you,” Martyn said in his absurd broad twang. It’s a genetic condition I’ve lived with my entire life. Sometimes I forget how strange I must look to an average Australian if such an individual could exist. Let’s just say an Australian who can stand a fair bit of sun.”
His laugh sounded like gravel and water sloshing in a bucket.
“Don’t you think so?”
Storm shifted in his seat. There was something unsettling about the way Martyn was staring at him. He had seen countless farmers appraising stock with just that kind of stare. Now he understood how a farm animal might feel in the stockyards on a sale day.
“I could have let Stuart McKenna meet you, but I decided I would instead. I hope you don’t disappoint me.”
“Prime Minister McKenna?” Storm asked in surprise.
“The same,” Martyn replied.
Jubilee Year: A Science Fiction Thriller (Erelong Book 1) Page 14