He headed toward his unit in Killara. There was little traffic so early apart from interstate trucks, but he made sure the car behind didn’t lose him. The guy was brazenly following.
He stopped at Lindfield beside the supermarket, loosened the SIG-Sauer in the holster under his arm. It was a beautiful limited-issue weapon, not yet generally released — highly accurate and with a double-action trigger for immediate first shot potential. He hadn’t fired it in anger but it was sweet on the pistol range.
Far under the seat, secured by plastic clips, was his ugly PSM. Unlike the finely made Swiss pistol, the CIS weapon was obsolete. But it had a bottlenecked 5.45mm cartridge able to penetrate fifty-five layers of Kevlar. He decided against taking it. This tyro was no Jack Flak.
He left the car and hurried into a lane. There were large-wheeled garbage bins for cover. The back entrances of shops one side. A blank wall on the other.
The car came around the corner, pulled up just beyond the lane. The driver got out, walked to the entrance of the lane, hands wide of his body. He’d grown breasts, wore jeans.
It was Hunt, looking drawn and tired.
She said, ‘I’m alone.’
He holstered the SIG. ‘Come here.’
She walked out of the street-light’s glare. He wondered how long she’d been waiting. She must have swapped with the man, sent him back in her car and stayed with the Volvo to be sure that he’d keep her in sight.
He said, ‘You trying to kill us?’
‘Don’t start. It’s enough for one day.’
‘So what the hell’s this?’
‘I need to know what’s going on.’
‘Nothing’s going on.’
‘Then why are you in Sydney? Now?’
‘Sydney, KL, Tokyo. Who cares where I am? I did training here — like the place. Where am I supposed to be? Back in Karachi?’
‘But you were there last night.’
‘I was chatting up a bird. It was her idea to go. Nothing to do with you.’
‘God.’ She slumped on the kerb, arms around her knees. ‘All I need.’
He crouched in front of her. ‘Who was the drop-kick in the car?’
‘One of the faithful.’ A toneless comment.
‘Why didn’t you send one of ours?’
‘Couldn’t at the time. And I trust him. He won’t ask questions.’
‘Are you daft?’ Christ, he thought, she’s lost it. ‘You’re a Grade One, remember? CONSISTENCY IS THE HIGHEST ACHIEVEMENT? TRAINING LEADS TO COURAGE? Get with it.’
‘Yes,’ she spat. ‘I’m not you — the great Grade Four. I’m just a Grade One with a bloody Grade Three job.’
‘The ice-maiden in meltdown mode? Getting punchy?’
‘I’m just so — tired.’
Cold-faced bitch, he thought. Did you think it was going to be easy? Then he remembered the words of a Sufi. Words echoed later by Tolstoy, curiously enough, perhaps because sublime ideas were limited. The sage, asked by a disciple ‘Who is dearest to you in the world?’ had replied, ‘He who sits in my presence.’
It reminded him what a shit he was. He sat beside her, said quietly, ‘Grade One’s tough. We’ve all felt this, you know. And Ron’s given you a biggie. You’re discovering you’re human. We’re not gods.’
‘You’re supposed to be.’
‘Give me a break. Look, you’ve managed so far. You’re going to make it.’
She covered her face with her hands. Her shirt wasn’t fully buttoned and he was staring into paradise regained. At least one part of her didn’t need support.
He waited, hard experience telling him how she felt — no family but EXIT, years of punishing study, the terrors of a complex assignment. Despite the endless training, pressure had crippled many people.
‘Heard from Ronnie?’
‘No, fuck her. She got me into this mess.’
‘She always knows what she’s doing. If she trusted you with this, you can hack it.’
‘Don’t try to patch me up, Cain. I’m stuffed.’
There wasn’t much he could do for her and her crisis was draining him too. ‘Stuffed or not, you’ve got to go on. What’s the deal on Murchison?’
The hands came down. ‘Who?’ Hard eyes staring at him.
‘Murchison. A Grade Three surgeon. He was there tonight. Are you running him?’
She scowled, brain in overload, trying to take it in.
God, she didn’t know! He could hear Rhonda’s voice again, telling him to stay out of politics. Odd when he’d spent years undermining a dictatorship.
She breathed out, straightened. ‘I don’t know anything about him.’
‘Then watch it. He’s a big guy. Lurching walk. Wavy hair now. Beard. Around forty. If you spot someone like that, steer clear.’
A nod.
‘And next time you contact Ron, tell her about tonight. Tell her I saw Murchison there. Are you reading me?’
A nod.
‘And tell your guy you lost me in traffic. And have a cover-line for tonight.’
‘I have. I’m not dumb, Cain.’
‘You were close to it last night, young lady.’
‘Jesus,’ she snapped, ‘you sound like my big brother.’
‘Near as you’ll get.’ He stood up, sad for them all.
She rose, wearing the strange frown that didn’t score her face.
He gripped her shoulders. ‘You’re beautiful, clever, great and doing a fantastic job. I saw you doing it tonight. You’re also an appalling stroppy bitch and we all think you’re marvellous. And it’s not forever, you know. Not far to go…’
She screwed up her eyes.
Poor Ronnie, he thought. She’d been a sitting duck for this one. Someone dispassionate, gorgeous, brilliant — even conveniently bent.
He gave her a Ronnie-strength bear hug, turned her to face the mouth of the lane then pushed her gently like a wind-up toy.
She reached the corner, turned, eyes bright. He looked at her amazed. Her tears were as unexpected as the thunder of a glacier cracking. Pressure couldn’t force them from her. But kindness had.
‘Thank you. Brother.’
He heard her get back in the car and leaned against a bin, exhausted.
He’d been free of women and EXIT for three months. Now this.
He’d had a night.
19
ENCOUNTER AT 3000m
The ridge was near the summit and there was little room to move. They’d rerigged the hang-glider for the sixth time that day and its pilot was ready for another charge into space.
The cameraman looked up from the Arri’s eyepiece to assess the sky. Clouds were closing in but an approaching hole promised sun. ‘Should get five.’
The assistant checked the mag. ‘Two hundred feet.’
They were shooting at twenty-four frames. A foot equalled sixteen frames. Meant they had around two minutes twelve seconds left. It was enough to see the glider against the peaks before it spiralled to the slopes far below.
‘Okay,’ Cain said. ‘We’ll roll till we run out.’
He checked the launch slope and lugged a camera case further out of shot. In the thin air and knee-deep snow, the effort left him out of breath. He left the crew fussing with the miniature camera clamped to an upright of the glider’s trapeze and plodded to the top of the spine.
The chopper was perched on a knoll just down from the ridge, framed against the snowscape of peaks. It was a Hughes 500 turbo hired from the Queenstown base and hadn’t stopped chugging all day. Up here, they didn’t shut down. He pressed the lever on the walkie-talkie. ‘We’re going again in five.’
The pilot opened the egg-shaped cabin’s door and gave a visual thumbs up.
The script was simple. Video: a hang-glider, painted with an aftershave insignia, soaring against snowy mountain peaks. Then super pack shot and slogan. Audio: a rock track.