The Weaver Fish (15 page)

21

Worse reviewed the basement security to identify Kev and Ritchie's car. Then he shut down car park surveillance and put together another toolkit, along with something known in the profession as a bitter almond. From a locked safe within a refrigerated fume hood in the laboratory next to his workshop he took a canister the size of a small torch. He unscrewed the casing at one end and inserted batteries from a supply in a lab drawer. Using fine forceps as a pointer, he entered data into a miniature keypad, then carefully replaced the screw cap and transferred the device to his bag.

The laboratory had a large window, offering natural light and a view of distant hills. Worse walked right up to the glass and looked out. There were occasions when he felt as if he lived in a fortress, and then he used these views, of the hills, of the Indian Ocean on the other side, and from the balconies down, to recivilize his world with perspective. He disliked his interaction with the two in the elevator, but his motive was to prevail; powerlessness, humiliation and discouragement were his psychological weapons. Most people who knew Worse would agree that he lacked genuine malice entirely. What he did not lack was objectivity, and he used these quiet moments to strengthen his trust in the factual, and his resolve in dealing with threat.

Placing a laptop computer and an assortment of cables in the bag, Worse left his apartment. In the car park, he went straight to their vehicle and opened the driver's door using a wire hook. There was a phone attached to the car charger. It was probably Ritchie's, thought Worse, and partly explained why Kev was instructed to make the calls in the elevator. The discovery slightly
altered Worse's plan. Instead of wiring the car for voice he took the phone apart and inserted a miniature relay switched to a dummy open line. Not only would calls via the mobile be transmitted to his computer, the phone would also eavesdrop on any conversation within range. Before reassembling it, he downloaded the call register and contacts file. Then he searched the car, confiscating a few items. Finally, he took the canister from his bag and carefully concealed it underneath the driver's seat.

Collecting his computer and toolkit, he left the car locked and walked through the car park to his own vehicle. There he linked both phone and computer to the car power supply, established the connection to Ritchie's phone, and opened Peepshow. Satisfied with these preparations, he moved his car to a bay from where he could see the lift station and switched off the engine. Without any further communication, he brought the elevator containing the two men to the basement and opened the doors.

They were lying down and spent several seconds apprehending light and freedom before springing to their feet and leaping out. Ritchie turned and kicked the doors as Worse closed them, then strode angrily to his car. Kev briefly leaned against a concrete column, but his returning composure was destroyed by having to run to the car before Ritchie drove off without him.

Worse followed. His driving manner was relaxed as he didn't need to keep them in sight; incorporated within the canister was a GPS beacon which identified their movement on his satnav screen. They headed west out of the business district and across to the coast, then followed the urban beaches south. The two were largely silent, except for Ritchie instructing Kev to inform someone named Karl that they were running late. Karl replied that he also would be late.

Their destination was Vlamingho's, a restaurant off the coast road with panoramic views of the ocean. As Worse pulled into the car park, he saw Ritchie and Kev disappearing through the main restaurant door. Close by was their car, parked in a bay reserved for disabled drivers.

Worse positioned himself overlooking the beach at a point from which, through the passenger window, he could see the
restaurant entrance. Ritchie had placed his mobile on the table, little realizing that it served as a perfect microphone. Worse listened to them order coffees, and some desultory interactions signalling that each was preoccupied. This allowed him to divide his attention between events inside and the more alluring, rolling waves in the same ocean that had borne Willem de Vlamingh's ship, in 1697, just out there. Worse imagined himself returning a curious stare.

He also watched the restaurant clientele coming and going. After about ten minutes a flamboyantly polished black BMW pulled into a reserved bay next to Ritchie's car. From it emerged a tall man wearing a dark business suit. Through half reflecting glass walls Worse could see the figure walk directly to a table. At the same time, he heard some cursory greetings. Kev, rather nervously, seemed to address the newcomer as Doctor Fiendish. That would be Fiendisch surely, thought Worse, Karl Fiendisch.

‘What do you have?' Fiendisch said.

Kev replied eagerly, ‘Coffee' and was ignored, while Ritchie began a surprisingly honest account of events at the Grosvenor. He finished on a slightly apologetic note, saying he thought it better to report in before doing more. His final remark revealed exasperation.

‘Yes, yes. You did well.' The accent was German. Worse sensed relief in the other two.

‘Interesting. Do you think your experience was entirely by chance?'

Ritchie didn't answer immediately and Fiendisch himself filled the silence.

‘It doesn't matter. Just be very careful. Even more careful. Don't return to that building until I say. I need to understand more.'

In the background, Worse discerned a regular ticking sound, as if from cutlery tapping china. This would be Fiendisch, he thought, and the metronomic accompaniment imbued his speech, already musically flat, with a slow tempo of threat. On aural grounds alone, Worse disliked him.

‘We have to ask, what has happened to Zheng?' Fiendisch continued, ‘And, what has happened to our enemy?' He was silent
for several seconds. ‘But we should probably assume that Zheng has failed.'

‘What'll we do?' asked Ritchie.

Again there was silence but for the tapping sound.

‘Nothing for now. I need to consult. I will be in touch.'

No more was said. Fiendisch appeared at the entrance and walked to his vehicle. Leaving the car park, he drove south. Worse allowed two vehicles to pass before entering the coast road in relaxed pursuit. He wasn't concerned about Ritchie and Kev; their movements and conversations would be recorded for later study. But Fiendisch was a valuable find, and he might be about to confer with others.

The BMW headed through the industrial periphery of Fremantle, crossed the river, and was soon negotiating the narrow, heritage streets of the old port city. Briefly, Worse wished that he had placed a tracking device on the car when it was unattended, but reminded himself that this would have been too risky. As it happened, the task of following at a distance proved undemanding, and when Fiendisch turned into a private off-street parking area Worse was able to pull over and park with unexpected ease. There were several paid minutes remaining on the kerbside meter, and he stayed in his car watching the street ahead. There was no further sign of Fiendisch.

Worse got out of his car, walked around to the meter, and forced some change into the coin slot. With each insertion the remaining-time indicator advanced minutely with a squeak of machine ill will. Then he set off along the footpath. About fifty metres ahead he passed the driveway on his left where Fiendisch had turned in. The BMW was parked, with three other cars, in a neat, gravelled yard surrounded by high walls. On the right was a side entrance to the adjoining building, the street frontage of which Worse now passed. It was two-storied colonial, with a grand entrance and wrought iron window grilles at street level. Once a port authority chambers or prosperous mercantile office, it had been superbly restored, and a polished brass plate in period lettering identified its present incarnation: HUMBOLDT BANK. Opening Hours 9.30 am – 4.00 pm.

Worse continued on, not wanting to appear too curious. He
crossed the street and sat at a café, looking back. No arrivals or departures enlivened the bank's entrance, nor its car park. After about thirty minutes, he paid for his coffee and walked back towards his car. From across the street he now registered detailed information about the bank building, access, roof design, windows, main door and security. His gaze rested for a few seconds on the brass plate. At that distance, the smaller print was indistinct, but he remembered: Closed 4.00 pm – 9.30 am.

22

Close to the wall, where Worse preferred to walk, the gravel was uncompacted by car tyres, and his black sneakers elicited a soft crunching sound with each step. The stone was blue metal, and from the safety of deep shadow Worse admired the surface of glints where moonlight was reflected in thousands of quartz facets.

It reminded him of the boulevard fairy lights seen from his balcony, and as with those, brought to mind ideas of information and inference. If he walked over there a trace would remain, memorialized in light, and to a knowing observer it would betray his passing. As likewise things hidden were betrayed to him: a glint was evidence of moonlight, and moonlight evidence of sunlight. And if a stone in the yard of the Humboldt Bank informed him of the sun and the moon, how much could he learn from all the records concealed in the building itself?

He sidled along the wall to the doorway leading from the yard to the bank. There was a latticed-iron outer gate with concealed hinges. The lock looked manageable, but he couldn't appraise the recessed door until he reached it. Also, the entrance was probably alarmed, and if he were the owner, there would be motion-sensor lighting in the alcove. On balance, he felt further exploration would be more efficient.

He continued past the gate, still in shadow, to the back wall. This was about three metres high, but its rough stone composition afforded manageable toeholds. Within a few seconds, Worse was sitting astride its capping, surveying the property on the other side. It was also a parking area, and several business vans were left sleeping for the night. The adjoining buildings were in
darkness, except for a yellow glow from lighting in the next street over. Beside him, the wall of the bank stretched upwards, and his gaze focused appreciatively on a feature that he had noted the previous afternoon. A metre above him was a decorative brick course that projected several centimetres from the stone face. He adjusted his small backpack and continued the climb. Once above the brick ledge it provided a valuable purchase for his toes as he edged sideways to the first of two second-storey windows that overlooked the yard. Reaching it, he grasped the mullion tightly and felt safe for the first time in several minutes. He looked down. From this angle the surface of the yard was pitch-black: no glint, no moon, no sun.

No depth. He might have been clinging to the face of a bottomless mineshaft. Only by memory, and faith in object persistence, could he know that down there was a blue-metal surface, that if he slipped it would be five metres, not a thousand, and to a familiar crunching sound. But even his own body was invisible, and for a moment conviction loosened inside him. Then his fingers tightened their grip and, by the hardness of masonry, his corporeal world was affirmed.

But the effect of that was to feel suddenly exposed and vulnerable. The discomfort drove him on; within a minute, the window was open and he had lifted his body onto the sill. Slipping his feet to the floor he closed the window behind him, then stood listening for a full minute. A vehicle passed along the street and he watched its tail-lights disappear at the first corner. Otherwise, the building was completely silent, and he began to explore, using his torch sparingly. He had entered what appeared to be a storeroom. High shelves were stacked with archive boxes of files, and along one wall a table served as mortuary for lifeless computers. He tested the thickness of dust; this was a room infrequently aired.

Opening the door carefully, Worse found himself on the upstairs landing. There were several other rooms, all but one with closed doors. That revealed a kitchen cabinet, sink, table and chairs—evidently the staff tearoom. Next to this were two doors with bathroom semiotics. At the front of the building, extending its full width, was an elegantly furnished boardroom.

Before exploring further, Worse knew he must deal with
the security system and set up a strategy for exit. He made his way downstairs, avoiding a carpet runner that might conceal pressure sensors. On the bottom step, he hesitated, in order to study the layout. Slung from the ceiling of the central hallway was a binnacle with three cameras trained on the front entrance, the side hall leading to the car park, and opposite to this, a door which Worse guessed might conceal a vault room. He pulled a balaclava over his face and proceeded towards the front entrance, walking near to the wall on his left. Along both sides were hung paintings of modern Australian Masters. Worse cast his torch on each admiringly; anyone watching would suppose him an art thief agonizing over choice.

A few metres past the presumed vault there was a closed door bearing the name DR KARL FIENDISCH in gothic script. Worse tried the handle; it was locked. He continued to the front door. The security panel was on the wall opposite. It was a system with which he was familiar and even from where he stood, Worse became aware of something unexpected: the building was not alarmed. He crossed the hallway in front of the main door and confirmed his impression. Some careless employee, the last to leave, had exited without card-swiping the panel. An implication was immediately evident to Worse; the electronically armed main door would not be deadlocked. He stepped back and verified this by opening it enough to reveal a vertical slice of the outside world. Then he closed it quietly; he now had at least one escape route.

The Fiendisch office would take some effort to unlock, and he decided first to search the rest of the floor systematically from front to rear. On the south side of the building, opposite the security controller, the front office was a reception area with comfortable seating, a coffee table piled with financial newspapers and company reports, and a high counter behind which were two distinct secretarial workstations. Two windows were furnished with closed wooden venetians, and no light penetrated from the street.

He quickly located his first objective, ineffectually concealed in a false drawer. It was the videodisk recorder for the security cameras in the hall. He opened the drive to remove the current disk and for the second time was surprised. The device was
empty. For a bank, the security standards seemed appalling, and Worse's confidence was briefly strained. Perhaps the Humboldt Bank had nothing to hide, no secrets. But he instantly reviewed the implicative thread, Zheng to Ritchie to Fiendisch to this building, and continued the task.

Apart from some unwrapped stock, there seemed to be no other videodisks around. He sat in a secretary's chair and redirected his attention to the nearest computer. The live screen provided enough light to dispense with his torch, which he pocketed. Within a few minutes he had mapped out the bank's IT platform, and was scanning files on Fiendisch's computer via the company intranet. Much of the mail was encrypted, and Worse spent a few minutes in cursory analysis. The challenge of breaking the code was enticing but he put it aside. That was an exercise to be continued in safety.

Removing his backpack, he took from it a flash memory stick and attached it to a computer USB port. But this was not for the purpose of making dumb copies. Deep inside the operating system, hidden within the arcane text of machine code, he inserted a discreetly camouflaged subroutine that would periodically transfer the hard disk's contents to an untraceable email address. Satisfied with the installation, he returned the terminal to its original state, replaced the memory device in his backpack, and walked to the door.

The computer screen cast an eerie glow into the main hall. Worse paused to look at a large Whiteley nude on the opposite wall, and wondered if ever before it had been observed under such strange lighting. Unusually, it was elegantly mounted, giving the effect of a luminous canvas framed by thin shadow, floating weightless off the wall. Combined with the subject's beauty and the style of mixed naturalism and abstraction, it was mesmerizing.

He decided to tackle the locked door. Against the wall between him and Fiendisch's office was a pedestal with spindly carved legs, supporting a preposterously large flower arrangement. It looked unstable, and he gave it wide berth. He was still distracted by the painting and absently feeling for his torch as he stopped before Fiendisch's door. When his eyes moved up to examine the lock, he froze. The door was ajar.

In an instant, a whole new construct of events was revealed to Worse. As he re-rationalized his discovery of the disabled alarm and the missing disk, he admonished himself. But there was little time for analysis. The door was opening, the same eerie screen glow spilled into the hall, and a dark figure backed out of the room.

Instinctively Worse turned in the direction of the front entrance. The only cover was the pedestal and in the single second needed to reach it he realized that, while he was closer to a means of escape, he was moving further into the same light that only moments before had held him entranced by art. He crouched down and watched. And again he rebuked himself, re-examining his assumptions: there may be more than one. If this one came in his direction, Worse could not possibly remain undetected. He saw the figure bend to lock the door, then turn and, possibly curious about the source of light from the front office, walk towards him.

Worse believed that he still enjoyed the advantage of surprise. Since leaving the secretary's station he had been holding his backpack. Now, covertly, he adjusted his grip. As the figure loomed beside the pedestal, two things happened. Worse sprang like a cat, and the other's head, oblivious to this, turned away in the direction of the Whiteley. And so the strap of Worse's pack passed easily over beret, over face, and tightened on the throat.

For a moment, Worse was in control. When strangled from behind, most people react instinctively by bringing their hands up to their throat in a vain attempt to loosen the band, their efforts quickly weakened by asphyxiation. But a defensive tactic of experienced fighters is to twist to face their aggressor so that the band is no longer strangulating, then counterattack. This one twisted.

Jesus.
Worse seemed to find himself constantly recalculating. Reflexly, he turned slightly sideways and raised one knee in front of his groin, just in time to block a savage knee-kick. Simultaneously, he brought both arms across his front, protecting himself from the knee to the face. This deflected a sharp elbow punch to his chest.

Worse's left hand still held the pack, with the strap around the other's neck. He pulled it sharply forward and down, stepping
aside and behind while re-slinging the strap so that once again it was across the throat. In the same action he pressed a foot into the back of his opponent's knee, while twisting the backpack into a tightening noose. The other's frame collapsed to the floor, and Worse secured its full submission with his weight.

The speed and emotion and automaticity of his actions left Worse somehow retarded in time, his consciousness tripping to catch up with events. Only now did he remember, and by remembering regain the present. In the midst of the struggle, his silent, powerful adversary dimly backlit by the Whiteley, he had felt something incomprehensible. In that same instant the screensaver had switched and his eye was drawn from the twisting silhouette to the painting behind, to the floating nude that seemingly shone brighter in the moment of darkness.

That image, eidetic and remote, and other contradictions, now demanded his attention: enchantment and fear, softness and firmness, contour and shadow, impossibility and touch. And suddenly he understood. What he had felt was a woman's breast.

Jesus.
He found his torch and shone it obliquely on her face. She looked completely calm. Worse felt ashamed.

‘Listen to me,' he said quietly. ‘I am not going to hurt you.'

Her expression didn't change.

‘I'm going to let you go. Please think about this, though. We are two intruders. Perhaps we're looking for the same thing. Perhaps I've already found what you want. We should talk. We could help each other.'

As he spoke he loosened the strap and raised it over her head, at the same time removing his balaclava. She slowly sat up, one hand tenderly stroking the front of her neck. Worse was sitting against the wall beneath the painting, his torch lying on the polished jarrah floor, his gaze fixed on the triangle of yellow light. He continued speaking, partly to her and partly to himself, in a voice woven with reflection, explanation and contrition.

‘I thought I was alone. I thought you were a man. I thought there could be more than one of you. I thought you might be armed. You were leaving the office of a man who wants me killed. I had nowhere to hide. There was no time to think. I'm sorry.'

She reached for the torch and studied his face. ‘What are you going to do?'

Worse wondered if her question carried the coda ‘with me', and felt more shame. ‘I was thinking of going upstairs and making a pot of tea,' he said.