Defender (31 page)

"You there, Dave?" Morgan asked, speaking into a throat mike pinned discretely to the inside of his shirt, a skin tone earpiece as good as invisible.
"Hear you loud and clear, bud,"
came che familiar Texan drawl. With his knee strapped post-surgery and armed with binoculars, laptop, phones and radios, Dave Sutherland had stayed put in his suite at the Regency as liaisonto local police and the link to INTREPID's covert ops headquarters in London.
"Feeling lonesome?"

"Bored, more like," Morgan replied. "Anyone spot anything yet?
If
this weather comes in too soon, our friends may abort and all I'll have to show for it will be a wet arse."

"Sit tight," Sutherland responded. "If anything comes in you'll be the first to know."

Morgan had been on the bench for half an hour. The whole thing was a gamble. They were following Cornell based on Johnson's ploy to send Arena after him. Where Cornell would lead them, nobody really knew.
If
nothing else, the mere possibility of lundt turning up made it all worthwhile.

Morgan checked his watch. Almost 2 .40pm. The police had reported Cornell's departure from the Novotel around half past one. He had left the Darling Harbour hotel alone on foot and headed off across the bridge to Cockle Bay, meandering through the working city's streets, all the way up to the Archibald Fountain, at the other end of Hyde Park. According to the police surveillance teams, Cornell had been instructed to take a predetermined route, complete with tortuous flourishes designed to throw off any pursuer. It was an old tactic. Clearly, somebody else was shadowing Cornell to see if he, in turn, was being followed. Fortunately, the cops had picked up on the ploy and had sufficient officers on the ground to throw down their own counter-surveillance smokescreen.

While all this was going on, Morgan had taken up his current position.
It
first appeared that Cornell would settle at the opposite end of the park. But, after an excruciating few minutes, Cornell was on the move, walking along the avenue of Moreton Bay fig trees linking the park. He strode purposefully across Park Street at the traffic lights, heading to the point he had marked on the map.

"Here we go," said Morgan. "I have visual on Cornell."

As Morgan watched, Cornell walked to a point at the far corner of the Lake of Reflection and stopped. He then sat down alone on a bench, from where he could observe the area around him. "He's in position on a bench at the northwest corner of the lake.
In
a straight line up from the obelisk at the Elizabeth and Bathurst Street intersection."

"Roger that, Alex," came Sutherland's reply.

Now they were all there: Morgan, Cornell and four invisible police officers, all waiting for the storm to hit, and waiting, hopefully, for Lundt to appear. The police had all but disappeared into the background, where they would watch and report on anybody fitting Lundt's description, and anything or anyone else looking vaguely connected to the play.

As Morgan shifted his gaze across the park, his attention was distracted by a young boy, Chinese and only about seven years old, immersed in a wild contest with the elements. A brightly coloured kite, swooping and peaking high above the treetops was battling not to be torn from the boy's line; the blackened, angry sky, taunted him to let go with every gust. With detached amusement, Morgan could see that the kid still had a lot of fight left yet, and was unlikely to give in. But he was about to do battle on another front: his parents were closing in fast, struggling with cameras, hats and bags, and unimpressed that the boy had ignored their remonstrations. Good luck, mate!

Near the boy, Morgan saw an older man standing at the lake's edge. He was wearing a battered baseball cap, pulled down tight over dark brows, talking into a phone. Grey hair was just visible and his free hand was thrust into the pocket of a lightweight, windproof jacket. Well prepared for the unexpected weather, Morgan thought, and seemingly unperturbed by its proximity. With a practised economy of habit, the man withdrew the hand from his pocket and absently pulled a pipe from his teeth. He, too, was looking on cheerfully, laughing as the kid fought against the conflicting forces of nature and disobedience, enjoying the innocence of the boy's games.

The kid's parents reached him. Game over. Despite admiring the kid's tenacity, Morgan was glad they were leaving. For, although this part of the operation was essentially surveillance, there was always a chance of something going wrong. You never knew.

The parents and boy bustled away and the old guy went back to 
minding his own business.

Morgan resumed his scan beyond the far end of the lake. He scanned from right-to-left first, then from left-to-right, a tactic he'd been trained to use to counter his western brain's default setting to read from left-to-right. The right-to-left search forced the brain to address its observations in a more precise manner.

No sign of anything untoward.

He restudied the immediate surrounds. Cornell had moved off the bench and was now pacing up and down beside the lake, agitated, 20 feet from the old man with the pipe. A smattering of people still hung around. Morgan's radio earpiece crackled to life.
It
was the police team leader, Stojakovic, call-sign 'Five'.
"Heads up. Coming infrom the North. African. Solidly built. Short hair cut. Dark, short-sleeved shirt. There's another at ten, and another at 20 feet behind him, following up. Both younger than the lead guy.

They look like Malfajirians
-
can't be sure, but they look interested in our show."

"Copy that, Five," answered Morgan. Damn it! He thought. Not Lundt.

Morgan looked back across to Cornell. Something wasn't right. Then 
he saw Cornell looking in the general direction of the old man. Was there something familiar about that old guy? Cornell was agitated. Looking around, squirming like a restless child, not sure if he should put his hand up and ask to be excused. Had he seen something?

The penny dropped.

Victor Lundt moved toward Cornell with the self-assuredness that comes when real experience confronts a real pretender. Like some indeterminable mutating contagion, Lundt dropped one host for another; the old man guise discarded and the real persona resumed. He sidled furtively along until he reached the very edge of the Lake of Reflection, three feet from Cornell.

Looking on, Morgan instantly recalled his confrontation with Lundt in the ruins of Cullentown. He now recognised his profile and build, his arrogant manner, sauntering towards the unsuspecting civil servant. Lundt hadn't bothered to mask those things. This, he saw, was to be a show of strength - some Neolithic chest beating to show off who had the biggest stones.

It was definitely Lundt.

Alex Morgan pulled the collar of his black jacket up around his face. While there was more than enough distance between him and Lundt, there was no point in tempting fate. Anyway, it was doubtful Lundt even knew Morgan was still alive. That was Morgan's trump card.

"This is One. Heads up everybody." His pulse racing and venom surging through his veins, Morgan calmly whispered his observations into the miniature radio microphone on his collar. "Old man standing next to Cornell. Baseball cap, grey short hair - the grey's fake - dark blue spray jacket, jeans and brown boots. This is our guy. Victor Lundt. Wanted by INTERPOL. Usually armed. Very dangerous. Acknowledge."

Immediately and in predetermined order, the members of the police team returned their acknowledgment. Morgan listened to the reassuring crackle of each response.

"Two, seen." "Three, seen." "Four, seen." The three officers in the park had each pinpointed Lundt, and would now track his every move and every inch of the area surrounding him.

"Great. Stay put. Let's see what he's up to. Five, can you update me on those Malfas?"

Morgan dared not take his eyes off lundt, in case the man's appearance turned out to be nothing more than wishful thinking.

Again, the earpiece crackled:
"This is Five."
It was Stojakovic.
"They're 20 feet from the end of the lake, but they've just slowed right down. Looks like they're sussing something out. I'll pull back a bit."

* * *

Lundt was sizing up his surrounds, looking for danger.

He felt suddenly exposed, and was instantly on guard. He didn't trust Johnson, not that he trusted anybody, but with all that had happened, he wouldn't put it past Johnson to be planning a hit to take him out. Everything now smelled of a set-up.

Lundt's dichromatic, gun-barrel eyes fixed on Cornell.

Fuck it! Lundt thought. He would take it easy to start, to avoid any confrontation that would draw attention. He wanted it nice and simple, so, if he had ro, he could act before anybody realised he'd done it. Bur, first sign of trouble and he'd take Cornell out, right here in the middle of fucking Sydney; give the Aussie coppers something to shit themselves about. Today was the day.

Lundt gave the silenced nine-millimetre Walther P99 an imperceptible but reassuring squeeze within the pocket of his jacket. Then he turned completely around in a sweeping circular motion, taking in the immediate vicinity, ensuring his safety precautions were in place - his back-up crew - one, two and, he looked around, yes, three, just as he'd arranged. Satisfied, he turned to Cornell.

"How's it going?" Lundt asked hospitably.

"Well, thank you," replied Cornell nervously, his teeth clenched around a cigarette that danced as he spoke. "We finally meet."

"No shit, Sherlock." Lundt couldn't believe he was having to play along with the charade. Did this wannabe chav who had stumbled into a very tough game actually believe they had business to attend to? Lundt scanned his surrounds in every direction. Once he was satisfied that everything was kosher, he'd lure Cornell away to a conveniently discreet spot where he'd do away with him and the girl. Although, killing her was going to be a real waste.

'I'm not sure how this is supposed to work," said Cornell. He was fidgeting, patting his pockets for a cigarette. "All this cloak and dagger stuff, as it were." He extracted a pack from his pants pocket and tapped one out.

"You've already got one going, you daft twat," said Lundt. "Sorry?"

Lundt nodded towards the half-smoked cigarette already in Cornell's mouth. He knew something was amiss. Trouble had arrived; he could taste it. His face became tight.

"Did you come here alone?" Lundt demanded urgently, through clenched teeth.

"Of course," Cornell lied. His eyes darted about the park, bravado gone.

Lundt caught Cornell's pained expression and read that he was looking for back-up. A phone buzzed within the folds of Lundt's jacket. Fuck! Rummaging, he angrily pulled the phone out from its burrow, his senses alert, predatory eyes scrutinising the immediate territory for the threat. His other hand closed tightly around the concealed P99.

* * *

What the hell's going on? Morgan was eager but concerned.

He'd made a positive visual ID of Lundt, and knew the police were now taking high-resolution photographs of Lundt, Cornell and the Malfajirians approaching from the north. Digital images would already be on their way through to INTERPOL.

It was a dangerous time. The principal characters had gathered and the first scene was underway. It was important to stick to the plan. It was, after all, still technically a surveillance operation, designed to draw Lundt out into the open before arresting him elsewhere - somewhere safely out of the public domain. Too late, however, Morgan saw everything change.

Lundt was looking around like an animal who knew the cage door was about to be clanged shut.

"OK, everybody," it was Stojakovic, tailing the Malfajirian group. "My guy is definitely in on this. He's approaching Lundt. Jesus! Guns! The M alfas are tooled up..."

Without further warning, the peace disintegrated, and mayhem erupted.

Alex Morgan caught sight of a man sprinting towards Lundt from Museum Station. He had a phone jammed against his ear, yelling into it while frantically waving his free arm above his head as he ran. The scene developed in excruciatingly slow motion. Morgan heard the distinct crackle of his earpiece filled by the shrill cry of one of the police officers on the other side of the park.

"All call-signs, this is Two. We've been spotted. I repeat, we've been spotted. 
We're blown!"

The first shots came from the north.

The unmistakable crack of low-velocity ammunition shattered the serenity of Wednesday afternoon. Against the first drops of rain peppering the silvery surface of the artifical lake, the gunfire was an avalanche. Sightseers sprinted from the park, the din of their fear underscoring the swell of gunfire. Morgan couldn't believe that so many were still so close by. Women and men screamed, desperate to be clear of the cross-fire.

At the very moment that the first shot was fired, Morgan saw a young woman, petrified with fear. Her pretty face full of terror, not knowing what was happening, or what to do. Morgan ran for her, ignoring everything else. He closed the distance to the girl with ease.
In
seconds, he was there. He leapt, grabbed her firmly about the waist, and in one fluid motion took her to the ground, covering her with his body behind a bench and the merest scrap of cover that it offered. "Stay down, darlin'. Don't move!" he said. Then he was up again and moving.

"Please. Don't leave me!" she cried. But Morgan had disappeared.

*
*
*

From her suite, Arena Halls heard the shots.

It was impossible not to. Her room overlooked the park, and with the promise of imminent rain, she had left the balcony doors wide open to allow the sweet, fresh smell of the storm in, while she awaited news from Alex and Dave Sutherland.