Dragons at the Party (20 page)

“I don’t think we’re at liberty to disclose those without our clients’ permission.” Tidey made one last try at bluster, dropped a few more plum notes.

“Mr. Tidey, you know better than that. I can get it all from Corporate Affairs. But I thought you wanted to leave them out of it, for the time being anyway?”

“Of course, of course,” said Quirke, butting in. “You’ll have the list, Inspector. You’ll be working tomorrow, the Big Day?”

“We never stop,” said Malone and grinned at Clements. “Do we, Sergeant?”

“Never,” said Clements, standing up and snapping his notebook shut. “Who knows, we may have Mr. Seville by tomorrow and then he’ll tell us everything.”

“Do you think so, Mr. Sun?” said Malone.

“I don’t know how an assassin’s mind works, Inspector. I’ve never met one. We’re a gentle people in Palucca.”

“Yes, you told me that before. But somehow you’ve been responsible for a lot of violence here in Sydney since you arrived.”

Sun had no answer to that; his face closed up again. The three men left abruptly, only Quirke managing a brief smile of farewell. Malone slumped back in his chair and looked at Clements.

“We’ve got the Speed Reader on our back. He’s in charge now.”

Clements swore and sat down heavily, as if everything was all at once too much for him. He sat in silence for a few moments, biting his lip, then he looked up, took out his notebook again.

“I didn’t get much out of the pub at Rozelle. The Brighams are okay—the old man’s got a bit of a sore head, that’s all. Seville kept to himself, never went down to the bar for a drink. He had two suitcases, but there was nothing in them to tell us anything about him, except he seems to have bought all his clothes in Beirut. We’ll get nothing out of anyone there, you can bet on it. He took everything that
might
identify him with him in that brief-case. We got some more fingerprints, but they mean nothing, now we know who he is.”

“He’s still looking for Dallas Pinjarri. I’ll bet my neck that Dallas had a gun in that bag he was carrying when you tailed him. Concentrate on finding Dallas. Go back to Redfern and see if Jack Rimmer can help, tell him I sent you and I’ll owe him if he can give us a lead on Dallas.”

“They don’t like me out in Redfern.”

“Now’s your chance to alter your image.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going out to Point Piper to see the Timoris again. I’ll let you know what life’s like out there amongst the silver-tails.”

III

Life amongst the silvertails was not going well.

“General Paturi’s arrived here, did you know that?” said Russell Hickbed. “He got into Sydney last night on a Garuda flight and went straight on down to Canberra. Phil’s just been on the line to me.”

“Has he seen Philip?” said President Timori.

“Not yet. Phil’s doing his best to dodge him, says his engagement book is full. He went down to Canberra first thing this morning and he’s due back tonight for the Bicentennial Ball.”

“Have we been invited to that?” said Madame Timori, who loved every social occasion except a funeral.

“I don’t think so. Come off it, Delvina. You should be lying low, keeping your head down.” Hickbed loathed social occasions, but only because they required social graces.

“Have you been invited?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going?”

“At a time like this?”

“
We can’t remain cooped up here for ever,” said Timori mildly. The Hickbed mansion and grounds were bigger than Kirribilli House but they were like a chicken-run compared to the palace back home. He was a sentimentalist, but only for the richest of memories. “We have to come out in the open sooner or later.”

“Not tonight, not yet.” Hickbed was wishing his guests had gone elsewhere. Canberra, preferably: he had suggested that to Phil Norval when he had spoken to him this morning. Norval’s reply had been more like a back-bencher’s than a Prime Minister’s, a vulgarity that would have had him banned from the air had he still been a TV star. “You could go out to Kootapatamba.”

Kootapatamba was the 100,000-acre sheep station that their partnership had bought in western New South Wales. “We don’t want to be
that
much in the open,” said Madame Timori. “Out there amongst all those sheep and flies and those bush people. Abdul would die of boredom.”

“Better that than a hole in the head,” said Timori, who knew nothing of sheep, flies or bush people, whoever they were. He turned as Sun Lee came out on to the terrace where they sat. “You look worried, Sun.”

Hickbed looked at the expressionless Chinese, but could see nothing; Abdul must have X-ray vision. “Things are going from bad to worse, Your Excellency. I have just spent an uncomfortable half-hour with that Inspector Malone. I and Mr. Tidey and Mr. Quirke. They told me afterwards that a great deal of your affairs may become public in a day or two. As soon as the celebrations are over, the media will be looking to stir things up.”

“It’s public enough already, isn’t it?” said Hickbed, steaming up his glasses in the morning heat. He took them off and wiped them. “The bloody newspapers are trying to out-do each other in guessing games.”

“Conjecture, just guesses, as you say,” said Madame Timori. “Conjecture never hurt anyone.” She had become regal, she had forgotten how vulnerable the common herd could be. Hickbed could have told her, but refrained.

“I don’t mean the newspapers will cause the trouble,” said Sun. “They will just broadcast it. We
have
to worry about a government body they have here, something called the Corporate Affairs Commission.”

“Bloody busybodies,” said Hickbed, who had run up against the Commission several times.

“That’s what democracy is, a nest of busybodies,” said Timori, and was pleased he had never fallen for it. The generals back in Bunda would learn their lesson. He decided he might wait a month or two before he attempted to go back; he would let the rebels stew in democracy, a real mess. “How much shall we have to tell them?”

“They are only concerned with what we have set up here in Australia. Mr. Ouirke tells me everything is legal. It is just the amounts we have invested that will cause comment—Australians are always interested in money, especially large amounts. It will give you and Madame Timori bad publicity.”

“Will it be made public?” said Madame Timori, who had never avoided publicity.

“As I understand it, no. But as I also understand it, Australia is what they call a leaky place—whatever that means.”

“It means government departments are full of holes,” said Hickbed. “The media seem able to get any information they want.”

“I’d shoot anyone who did that in Palucca,” said Timori, who had indeed done that on two occasions. “Can’t the Prime Minister put a stop to something like that?”

“Not by shooting them. Anyhow, Corporate Affairs is a State thing.” Hickbed could see the leaks ahead and the mud forming. “Premier Vanderberg isn’t on your side, I’ve told you that.”

“Perhaps we should seduce Mr. Vanderberg,” said Madame Timori.

Timori smiled at his wife. “I saw a picture of the gentleman, darling. I don’t think he would know what seduction is, not as a victim anyway.”

“I mean with money. Everyone can be seduced by money, even the rich.” Seduced by it herself, she knew its powers. She was not carrying the bag of emeralds this morning; she had, reluctantly, entrusted them to the security of Hickbed’s safe. She felt penniless without them.

“Not The Dutchman,” said Hickbed. “I tried it once. He’s not interested in money. Just power
and
spite, that’s all. If he could topple Phil Norval from the Prime Ministership, he’d think of himself as the richest bastard in the world.”

“Perhaps we could help him topple Philip,” said Madame Timori. “He’s been no help to us so far.”

All three men, even Sun Lee, looked at her in astonishment. Then Hickbed said, “But he’s our little mate! For crissake, Delvina, what are you saying? Without him you wouldn’t be here!”

“True. But what has he done for us since we arrived? We could approach Mr. Vanderberg and suggest a quid pro quo.”

Before the men could respond, the Hickbed housemaid, an Asiatic, appeared. “There is an Inspector Malone . . .”

“Oh Christ,” said Hickbed, whose only communication with the Lord was in expletives. “Do we see him or don’t we?”

“Tell him to go away,” said Madame Timori.

“Can one do that in Australia?” said the President. “Just like back in the palace in Bunda?” He looked at Sun and smiled. The latter smiled in reply, but it was as if he were trying to express himself in a foreign gesture. “Let’s see him. Otherwise how shall we know how close they are to catching Seville? Remember, it is my head that is in Mr. Seville’s sights.”

Inside the house Malone was examining what he could see from the big entrance hall. A curving staircase led to the upper floor: Lisa dreamed of having a curving staircase, but it was difficult to fit such a feature into a one-storeyed house that would fit into this one six times over. The black-and-white tessellated floor was matched by the black-and-white abstract paintings on the walls; Malone would not have guessed that Hickbed was a lover of abstract art, but perhaps they reminded him of profit-and-loss graphs. Through an archway he could see an ornate drawing-room where the carpet looked so thick that the sheep might be lying there crushed with the virgin wool still on their backs. Lisa would love all this, and he wondered how he could suddenly build the fortune to buy it.

Nagler, whom he had met out in the driveway, had been equally impressed by the house and
the
way Hickbed lived. “I have an uncle who used to live like this in Hungary.”

“What does he do now?”

“He lives like it in Melbourne. Made his money in property. Every year he sends me a Christmas box, thinks it’s the Christian thing to do. Being a Hungarian, he always asks for a receipt.” Nagler had looked up at the big house. “I doubt very much if Mr. Hickbed has ever done a Christian thing in his life. But that’s just a Jewish thought.”

“You’re not happy here, Joe.”

Nagler nodded. “All of them are a bunch I despise.” All his wry humour had abruptly disappeared. “I don’t think I’d mind if this guy Seville wiped out the lot of them.”

“What’s security like here? Easy?” The narrow street outside was jammed with a small crowd of demonstrators, media cars and vans and two police cars. There were no locals: public curiosity was something the Point Piper natives would never descend to. Curtains occasionally moved at windows, but that could have been the breeze of gossip disturbing them. Gossip was a permitted indulgence.

“Bloody difficult. Look around you.”

There were several large blocks of flats nearby and on the high side of the street there were big houses that overlooked the Hickbed mansion. It would be difficult to police every square foot of the surrounding properties, especially at night and more especially if the owners refused access. Which they were more than likely to do, since President Timori and his upstart consort were such unwelcome neighbours.

“I’m glad it’s your problem, not mine.” Then he had an idea that had been niggling at him ever since he had interviewed Tidey and Quirke: “Joe, what’s your contact like with ASIO?”

“What’ve you got in mind?” Nagler at once was suspicious, but he smiled.

“Do they ever tap the phones at Kirribilli House when visitors are staying there?”

“I could ask them, but that doesn’t say they’ll tell me. What do you want to know?”

“What overseas calls went out of Kirribilli while the Timoris were there and where the calls went to. You can tell the spooks I’m trying to find out who’s paying Seville.”

“
Okay, I’ll try, but don’t hold your breath. How are you going on Seville?”

“No good so far.” He knew Nagler would understand. They both had too much experience to believe that mistakes were never made. “But I hope I don’t have to explain why to the Timoris. You heard about what happened to me this morning?”

Nagler nodded. “I didn’t like to bring it up.”

Now Malone was in the house and the housemaid was coming towards him. “Mr. Hickbed will see you, sir.”

Malone followed her out to the back of the house, taking in everything he passed; Lisa would grill him tonight when she learned he had been here. He stepped out on to the terrace, saw them all dressed for the morning’s heat and asked if he might remove his jacket. He figured this meeting, no matter how short, was going to be hot anyway.

“Of course,” said Madame Timori, assuming (or presuming) the role of hostess. “You must be at boiling point, if only from frustration. Mr. Hickbed heard on the radio about your adventure with that dreadful terrorist, what’s-his-name.”

What’s-his-name: so casual, as if Seville meant nothing in their lives. “Yes. We talked about you and the President. But he didn’t tell me who was employing him or why he wanted to kill the President.”

“A pity,” said Timori. “One should always know the reasons for one’s murder.”

Hickbed wasn’t interested in what’s-his-name: “We’re surprised to see you so soon. Mr. Sun has told us about your interview with Mr. Tidey and Mr. Quirke. You’ve over-stepped the mark. That’s for Corporate Affairs, not the police.”

“Oh, I explained that to them, Mr. Hickbed. They chose to talk to me.” He looked at Timori. “Before I came in, sir, I spoke to Sergeant Kenthurst out in the street—”

“Who?” Being a dictator and not a politician he had never had to bother about remembering names.

“The officer in charge of the Federal Police, the ones who are guarding you. I don’t have the personnel, so they and Special Branch are going to interview every one of your staff individually—”

“
Grill them, you mean?” Delvina Timori knew how the police worked; or anyway, the Paluccan police. She had herself given orders. Not all Paluccans, as Sun had claimed, were gentle. “What if we refuse to allow such a thing?”

“I don’t think the courts would allow you to claim diplomatic immunity for all of them, Madame. And it wouldn’t be good public relations.” He could feel himself getting hot and it wasn’t all due to the morning sun. He looked back at Timori. “I’m sure you’ll see it’s better to co-operate, Mr. President.”