Sensitive New Age Spy (20 page)

‘Bondi Trattoria,’ a male voice answered.

‘Hi,’ Lonergan said. ‘What time do you guys open for breakfast tomorrow?’

‘We’re open from seven, sir.’

‘Great. Can I book a table for two around seven-thirty?’

‘We’re not too busy at that time, you don’t really need
to book,’ the guy said.

‘No,’ Lonergan said, ‘I’d like to. Table for two, a private corner if you have one. In the name of Murdoch.’

There was a pause, and then Lonergan said, ‘Seven-thirty going to be okay for you, Alby?’

At 7.30 a.m. I was sitting in the Bondi Trattoria, sipping a cappuccino and waiting for Carter Lonergan. He arrived ten minutes late and joined me at a corner table at the back. The waiter handed us a couple of menus.

‘Everything’s good here,’ I said. ‘The chilli beans on polenta with parmesan are very tasty, and the breakfast pizza should keep you going till dinner.’

Lonergan smiled. ‘You have a taste for pizza lately, I hear.’

So Gwenda’s bozos weren’t the only people watching me. ‘I find the home-delivery service very handy.’

‘I’ll bet.’

Lonergan ordered extra-crispy bacon with fried eggs, a potato pancake, and a flat white. For once I wasn’t hungry.

‘Any word on Clare?’ I asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘So you still buying the ransom scenario?’

‘No. But Pergo’s still trying to sell it to me,’ Lonergan said. ‘That’s why I’m talking to you.’

‘Clare has the ability to arm the warheads, right?’

‘Yes, she does. And I don’t like where this is leading.’

‘Me neither.’

‘Look, Alby, I’m going out on a limb here and handing you a chainsaw. Langley warned me about you when I was posted down here, and Pergo and his buddies in the Defence Department say you’re a loose cannon.’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘I think there’s a loose cannon somewhere, but I’m not sure it’s you.’

‘What were you arguing about with Pergo out on the tanker on Monday?’

He smiled. ‘You don’t miss a trick, do you?’

‘I like to keep on top of things.’

‘Okay, when I told Pergo I’d brought you in on the investigation, he lost it. Said you were the last person we needed sniffing around, and from the look of things he was right. I just didn’t know why.’

‘And now you do?’

He gave a brief nod. ‘We’ve just turned up a connection between Pergo and Chief Warrant Officer Brames from the
Altoona
.’

‘Iraq?’

He nodded again. ‘Pergo had Brames on board in a scheme to chopper antiquities looted from the Baghdad museum out of the country. NCIS got wind of it and Brames managed to get himself clear before charges were laid.’

Lonergan was going out on a very long limb by telling
me this, so I decided to trust him. ‘Your instincts are right, Carter. I’m not a hundred percent sure what’s going on, but I know Pergo is up to his neck in it. He’s on his way to Tasmania and I’ve got a fair idea the nukes and Clare are down there already. I’m on the ten o’clock to Hobart.’

‘You need some back-up down south?’

‘Not on the ground. I’ll move faster on my own. But if you can keep Pergo thinking you’re buying his ransom bullshit, he might leave his guard down.’

‘Right.’

‘The minute I’ve got proof Pergo’s involved, I’ll let you know.’

‘Okay. Watch your back, Alby. If this goes down the tube we’ll both go down with it. It’ll bury us.’

‘Yeah. Literally.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Got a plane to catch.’

I headed towards the door, then turned back. ‘How did you pick up the bug in the phone? Boxer said it was undetectable.’

‘Educated guess. When my cell phone is out of my sight for more than sixty seconds I automatically consider it compromised. Standard operating procedure.’ He smiled. ‘But I didn’t know for sure until you turned up for breakfast.’

‘Cruising men’s toilets, Boxer? That’s twice in one week. I’m shocked.’

Boxer glared at me. ‘This is the last favour I ever do for you, Alby, you bastard. Now, where’s your boarding pass?’

It was early Saturday morning and we were in the men’s room by the departure gates at the domestic terminal. I’d bought a ticket to Perth online and had checked in for the flight with carry-on luggage only. Boxer had done the same thing, but for a flight to Hobart. Having passed through security, we were now exchanging boarding passes, coats and hats. Boxer would fly to Perth on my ticket and in my coat and hat, and I’d be heading south.

Boxer was pissed off because I was wearing a truly daggy, red terry-towelling sunhat and a white blazer. He was a pretty cool dresser and the very idea of having to wear that hat and blazer in public was killing him. The outfit
would severely reduce his chances of making up for the missed weekend with the waitresses by renewing his membership in the mile-high club with one of the cabin attendants.

Julie had organised for a camera case to be waiting for collection at the airfreight counter in Hobart. It had been packed and dispatched by Graeme Rutherford, an ex-field agent who worked in D.E.D.’s Melbourne office.

Graeme had spent four months in a coma after a nasty incident earlier this year, then, in true Melburnian fashion, on the day of the AFL grand final he’d suddenly woken up in the ICU, watched his team get thrashed on TV, then checked himself out of hospital. He was as good as new now and still the best – he could pack five cameras into a case built for two and still leave room for an MP7 compact submachine gun and three 40-round mags. Our security-cleared freight-forwarding agents would helpfully ignore the disassembled weapon packed amongst the Nikons.

The approach to Hobart was a bit bumpy, and when we came out of the clouds I was looking down at a wild ocean with big, white-tipped waves being whipped up by the wind.

We touched down right on time and I was walking past the baggage carousel when I heard a whistle. A tall, solidly built man in a battered chauffeur’s cap was holding up a sign reading ALIBI MUDROCK. It was written in crayon on a piece of cardboard torn from a Cascade beer carton. I walked towards the man, who smiled politely as I approached.

Would sir like me to collect his luggage?’ he asked.

‘That would be nice,’ I smiled back.

The man shook his head. ‘Well, I’m afraid on that point, sir would be shit-out-of-luck. Who died and made sir king?’ And then he grabbed me.

A hug from Ed Wardell is a bit like being wrapped in a giant bearskin rug and stuffed into a car crusher. He eased up the pressure just as I felt certain my ribs were going to snap.

‘How ya doin’, ya old bastard?’ he said, pumping my hand and grinning. ‘I fumigated the sheets, locked up the virgins and stocked the larder, so Chez Ed is yours while you’re in town.’

Ed was about forty, bearded and tanned. Built like the proverbial brick outhouse, he had slimmed down recently. There was still that larrikin twinkle in his eye that said if an opportunity for mischief was coming his way he wasn’t about to step off the footpath and let it go by.

Ed’s older brother Harry had been in D.E.D. with me, right from the time I joined. Harry was a good mate and good at his job, which led to him being gunned down in a Double Bay café at the start of the Bitter Springs fiasco. It was only six months ago, and the pain was still raw for both of us, but being Aussie blokes, we’d avoid mentioning the whole business, apart from the odd clinking of glasses in the pub. And if I knew Ed, the pub would be our first stop. It was getting towards lunchtime and I suddenly fancied a big charred steak, all bloody in the middle.

We headed to the airfreight counter where my camera
case was waiting. I moved away to unlock it and check the contents. Earlier this year, one of my cases had exploded minutes after coming off a Hong Kong-bound 767 and I wasn’t taking any chances.

Ed insisted on carrying the case and my duffle bag to the car. His shiny new Jeep Cherokee was just outside the terminal, conveniently parked in a no-stopping zone with the bonnet up.

‘Still having engine problems, I see.’

Ed grinned and tossed my luggage into the back of the vehicle before closing the hood on the engine compartment and climbing into the driver’s seat. The jeep’s motor started smoothly at the turn of the key.

Ed had a bit of a problem with rules and regulations of any kind, and claimed to have never paid for street parking in his life. All his vehicles, regardless of their age and condition, suffered catastrophic but temporary engine failure at the sight of a parking meter.

Not that the bloke was short of a quid. Fifteen or so years back, he’d been working on an airline check-in desk in American Samoa when a famous Hollywood director on a location search had taken exception to his flight home being delayed by weather problems. Words were spoken, demands were made, and finally a punch was thrown. Ed went down like a sack of potatoes, even though he was twice the size of the wunderkind director and had been a promising light heavyweight in his younger days. The out-of-court settlement was
massive. Ed came home to Tassie, bought himself a waterfront home, a boat, made some very wise investments, and settled down to enjoy himself. And for Ed, that meant getting into trouble.

He’d been arrested by the marine police a couple of years back for allegedly poaching abalone and had unexpectedly confessed. The cops couldn’t believe their luck and the inexperienced police prosecutor didn’t even bother to prepare a case. In court Ed politely explained to the magistrate that yes, he did indeed poach abalone, since he’d found that if you fried or grilled it the shellfish tended to toughen up.

Ed’s description of simmering the abalone briefly in lemongrass, ginger, white wine and cream was countered by the magistrate’s suggestion of a classic
court bouillon
. Perhaps with a touch of Pernod, he added before dismissing the case. The cops were livid, and Ed spent a couple of months in Sydney with Harry until things cooled down.

‘So what’s on the agenda?’ Ed said as I made sure my seatbelt was nice and snug. I’d driven with Ed before and I knew what to expect.

‘Lunch might be nice, for starters.’

He gunned the engine. ‘Now, how’d I know you were gonna say that?’

He pulled out into the traffic with a cursory look over his right shoulder, the acceleration slamming me back in my seat. He grinned at the screeching of tyres and angry horn blasts, which accompanied most of his lane changes. One
of Ed’s early plans when he came into all that money was to open Australia’s first offensive driving school.

The top was off the Cherokee and we screamed over the Tasman Bridge with Ed standing up and waving to the speed camera.

‘I’m trying out this new paint that’s supposed to make the number plates impossible to photograph,’ he said.

‘Selflessly working for the greater good of your fellow Taswegians, I see.’

‘Yep, I’m the Apple Isle’s own Mother Teresa.’

‘Still got the place at Battery Point?’

Ed shook his head. ‘Moved out of town. Down to Peppermint Bay. This joint is getting too bloody crowded for my liking.’

Crowded was one thing Hobart wasn’t. On first impressions, you might get the idea the place is a big country town. It’s low-rise, with lots of convict-era buildings, wide streets and public parks. For my money it’s the perfect size for a city, big enough to support a vibrant arts community, a range of great places to eat, and all the public services you need, while still maintaining its heritage and being compact enough to wander on foot without the feeling of isolation you can get in Sydney or Melbourne.

Ed screeched to a halt at a pedestrian crossing, to the sound of more angry honking from behind. A tall, gamine, twenty-something in ugg boots and a short denim skirt crossed in front of us and Ed wound down his window and
whistled. The girl gave him the finger and he chuckled.

Wild thing, eh? Jeez, mate, if that skirt was one millimetre shorter we’d be able to see the old map of Tasmania.’

It seemed odd hearing the expression used in Tasmania by a Tasmanian about a Tasmanian. Odder still was having Ed swerve into a parking space outside a downtown vegetarian café.

My lentil burger might have been about as good as a lentil burger ever can be, but since I’d had my heart set on a hunk of rare, grain-fed sirloin, maybe served on a sweet potato, apple and sage rosti, with a red wine sauce and caramelised onions, I was never going to eat more than a mouthful.

Ed munched his way glumly but resolutely through a huge mixed salad. He used to boast that he hadn’t eaten anything green since he was five, apart from lime jelly. In the old days, his idea of meat and three veg was a T-bone steak with French fries, roasted spuds and a creamy, cheesy potato gratin. Adult-onset diabetes had forced him to change his ways. Under protest and doctor’s orders, he’d switched to a healthy diet to save his life and he reckoned it was slowly killing him.

Over lunch, Ed brought me up to speed on what he knew of the Gaarg Foundation’s foray into Tasmania.

They bought Adamek Island from the government about a year or so back. Ninety clicks off the coast, out that-away.’ He pointed towards the south-east. ‘It’s basically just a bloody big rock sticking out of the Southern Ocean – an
abandoned whaling station with a lighthouse that was automated in the 1970s, a bunch of cottages in various stages of falling down, a muttonbird colony, and more friggin’ nasty black tiger snakes than you can shake a stick at, if shaking a stick at a joe blake is your idea of a good time. Plus,’ he continued, ‘the island gets gales blowing up from the Antarctic that would freeze the balls off a brass monkey.’

‘Sounds attractive,’ I said. ‘Can you get me out there?’ I wasn’t happy about involving Ed after what had happened to his brother, but I didn’t have much choice.

‘Sure. But it’ll depend on the weather. Today’s out of the question, I’m afraid, there’s a big swell running. There’s supposed to be a change on the way, though. I reckon we could have a go in the morning. It’ll cost you, big time.’

‘Name your price.’

‘Dinner. You’re cooking.’

A sign outside the gallery read
LUCAS BAYVEL – NEW IMAGES
and the framed photographs that covered the walls inside had three things in common: they were stunning, they’d all been taken from the air, and every single one of them featured a lighthouse.