Wyatt - 05 - Port Vila Blues (22 page)

Yeah, but what then? Have you
thought about this?

Want me to pull the trigger for
you?

Wyatt gave them a minute to leave
the house and enter the trees, then climbed down with the rifle and went
hunting for them. Their natural inclination would be to spread out and head
downhill toward the road and the gate. Wyatt went uphill, striking away from
the house at a sharp angle. He had no intention of trapping himself in the
house.

He kept to the trees where there was
no dew to betray him, only the springy mulch of fallen leaves. He was looking
for a high vantage point, one that gave him a wide-angled field of fire, taking
in not only the house but also the lower belt of trees and the open grass
stretching down to the gate. In the end he chose a tree. The lowest branches
were three metres above his head. He could stand on them and not be seen; lean
against the trunk or rest the rifle on a higher branch and pick off one man and
then the other.

Wyatt slung the rifle across his
back, the strap around his chest and shoulders, then weighted one end of the
rope with the jemmy and slung it over the branch, throwing twice before the
jemmied end looped over the branch, dragging one half of the rope with it.
Using both halves then, Wyatt hauled himself into the tree. When he was
comfortable he pulled the rope and jemmy up after him and folded them back into
the knapsack.

Of course there was another way of
doing it. He could go on the offensive, running low, weaving wherever the
ground was open, coming up on the flank of each man to kill him while he was in
a state of surprise, still bringing his gun around.

But there were two men. Which one
should he choose first? Which flank, left or right? What if one or both men had
anticipated him and changed direction? These were the questions Wyatt had
played with as he made his choice. They were remembered from his old training,
a drill instructor drumming them into him, Wyatt his best pupil.

This was the better way. He would
not let himself be drawn, not break cover. If your enemies dont see you move,
they dont know if youve left the area, stayed put or are moving without being
seen. It forces them to search in several directions, splitting their forces
and their concentration. Thats how Wyatt read it. Better to let them make the
moves, the mistakes. Better to let them come across open ground than to cross
such ground himself.

What he wanted was a clear shot at
the man with the rifle, the man called Riggs. Riggs had to go first; he was the
one to watch. It would mean giving away his hide in the tree to the man with
the shotgun, but Wyatt was counting on the shotgun being out of close range.

He settled in to wait. Now and then
he caught brief glimpses of each man at the lower reaches of the trees around
the house, but lacked a clear shot at them. They were keeping to cover, not
risking the open grass between the trees and the fence.

At other times they tended to
disappear for minutes at a time. Wyatt guessed that when they found no return
tracks across the grass they would begin to circle back, searching the grounds
tree by tree before searching the house again. Wyatt did what hed done in
Vietnam, switched off his mind as if some aura of himself might be sensed by
the men who were hunting him. It wasnt something hed been trained to do; it
was instinct and it had got him out of that foul place alive.

The sun was fully above the horizon
now, casting long shadows, winking in the dew. Now and then Wyatt drew deep
breaths to expel carbon dioxide from his system, to cut down on the natural
trembling in his hands. He blinked, trying to distinguish human shapes in the
tricky light.

In blinking he seemed to place an
apparition in the landscape. He shook his head to clear it. Not an apparition
but a man, stepping through the holed fence and hurrying at an absurd crouch up
the slope toward the house. He was dressed curiously in a stiff new sports coat
and polyester trousers. Wyatt put his eye to the rubber cup on the scope,
cutting out extraneous light. The mans haircut looked new and raw and Wyatt
could see the damage of cigarettes, alcohol and bad diet in his face. There
were two rings in one ear lobe, tattoos on the backs of his hands. He had the
nervy appearance of a burnt-out minor hoon dressed for church.

Wyatt pulled back from the scope. If
he hadnt, he would not have seen a movement among the trees on the left flank,
Riggs sighting the hunting rifle on the man coming across the grass.

Riggs fired and Wyatt fired. Wyatts
shot was clean and on target, punching into Riggs back, between the
shoulderblades. Riggs shot caught the stranger in the stomach. The third man
showed himself then, clearly panicked. Wyatt watched him make short, senseless
runs left and right, weaving as he made for the house.

Wyatt let him go. He climbed down
from the tree and set out at a lope across the back lawn, flattening against
the back wall when he reached the house. He listened, tracking the man through
the rooms. Then he went in.

He found the man called Mansell
crouched at a window in the study. He let Mansell hear the oily snap as he
worked the slide of the rifle. Drop the gun and turn around.

Mansell turned but he brought the
shotgun around with him. Wyatt saw fear and confusion in him and didnt fire.
He waited, letting the growing silence work for him. Mansell was mostly a
bluffer but Wyatt knew it could be a mistake to push a bluffer too far, for he
might then look at himself and become fatalistic or despairing about his
inadequacies and decide to take a foolish risk, to cure himself of them.

But finally Mansell sulked and threw
the shotgun down and told Wyatt most of the things he needed to know about the
magnetic drill robberies. Wyatt locked him in the cellar. There had been a
reason to kill Riggs; there was no reason to kill Mansell.

That still left De Lisle unaccounted
for. Wyatt doubted that he was still in Australia. The Wintergreen woman had
mentioned Suva, Port Vila, a yacht. Wyatt searched De Lisles study. Rolodex,
desk diary, silver-framed photograph of a lovely two-master,
Pegasus
stamped
on her bow. Wyatt checked the Rolodex, lifted the handset of De Lisles phone
and tapped in the number for the yacht basin in Suva Harbour. Yes, sir, Mr De
Lisle flew in yesterday evening. He immediately put to sea. Estimated sailing
time to Port Vila? Two or three days, sir.

On the way out Wyatt went through
the pockets of the stranger in the grass. He found an Ansett ticket in the name
of Terence Baker. The name meant nothing to him at all.

* * * *

Thirty-three

The
initial search had failed to find him, and so had a more thorough sweep of the
building. Liz had felt time slipping through their hands. Springett had got out
somehow, had got himself onto the street and away unobserved. Shed sent a
divisional van to his house, waited impatiently for them to call back. Not
here, they said. The place is shut up.

She shrugged. It had been a long
shot. She went home. Nothing more she could do.

The next morning she gathered all
the paperwork there was on Springett and read it in Montgomerys office,
drumming her fingers on his desk as she read. Montgomery came in at nine,
sporting a bandage and a black eye. Make yourself at home, Ms Redding.

Said with a half smile. She blushed,
gathered her files together. I think weve lost him, sir.

Montgomery eased himself into his
chair. If you were him, where would you go?

I wouldnt stay in Australia.

Youve alerted the airlines?

For what good it will do.
Rudimentary disguise, false passport, whats to stop him? Hell have an
indirect route mapped out as well. France via New Zealand, for example.

Montgomery nodded for a long time. I
shouldnt have doubted you.

Boss, I want to search his house.

Ill come with you, Montgomery
said, enlivened suddenly.

Thirty minutes later, they stood
looking around at the walls and furniture in Springetts Glen Iris house. No
obvious signs that hes bent, Montgomery said. No Merc in the carport,
nothing funny inside.

Liz ignored him. She didnt want
Montgomery here with her. It was as though he wanted to atone somehow, be
supportive, but he was ineffectual and he was in her way. She sat on the carpet
and began to sort through paper scraps from Springetts rubbish bin and
documents from drawers in his study, kitchen and sitting room.

His telephone bills seemed to be
worth a closer look, several monthly bills from Optus, a quarterly from Telecom.
Why the separate Optus account? As far as she could tell, it listed only a
handful of interstate numbers. The same numbers cropped up on each bill, except
for the most recent, which listed a new number. Liz went to the Touchfone on
Springetts desk, called the most frequently called number. A recorded message
told her that she had reached the residence of Vincent De Lisle and that he
wasnt in right now. She was offered the choice of leaving a message or trying
him at the North Sydney Magistrates Court.

She tried the other number. A harsh,
clipped, recorded voice said: Niekirk. Leave a message.

So she had the names of the people
Springett was dealing with but not where he was hiding himself. She sighed,
glanced around the room. There was something about the floorboards behind
Springetts desk chair. One of them was a poor fit.

Then Montgomery broke in upon her
thoughts. A heavy smoker, he was fidgeting. Ill see you back at the car.

Yes, sir.

Liz stood for a moment. Then, on an
impulse, she pressed the redial key and, as Niekirks cruel voice unwound,
pressed the #1 key. If Niekirks answering machine had a remote access
function, one of the keys would activate the messages his callers had recorded.
She went through the numbers and it was the #6 key that switched the machine
over. There were a couple of hangups, then this: Its all falling apart here,
better make yourself scarce. Im going after De Lisle in Vila, collect whats
owing, if you want to meet me there.

Liz grinned to herself. She didnt
leave immediately but probed experimentally around the edge of the offending
floorboard.

* * * *

Thirty-four

Wyatt
caught a Pacific Rim flight originating in Brisbane. He could have made the
connection in Sydney, but he wanted to minimise all risks, and the advantage of
flight 204 was that Brisbane passengers were not required to disembark at
Sydney while connecting passengers boarded the plane. If the authorities were
circulating his description theyd be circulating it at Sydney airport.

He had a seat in first class, the
only seat available on Pacific Rim. It had been a while since hed been able to
afford first class. There had been a time when he always flew first class, a
time when the big jobs had been easier, netting him first-class spending power.

Twenty minutes later they were still
sitting on the ground at Sydney. Maybe hed been spotted flying to Brisbane
from Coffs Harbour? He flipped through the in-flight magazine, unconsciously
running the tip of his tongue over the hole in his tooth. He had a sudden
sensation of himself as an ordinary man after all, small and afraid, trapped
inside a thin metal skin. Then the pilot announced another fifteen minutes,
saying that air traffic above Sydney was clogged and they were waiting for it to
clear, and Wyatt felt the tension ebb a little.

In Port Vila Wyatt joined the
passengers making for the front exit door of the Pacific Rim 747, stepped out into
the air of Vanuatu, and was engulfed by old sensations. They were a compound of
remembered people, places, sounds and bitter risks, encouraged into life by the
smells of the tropics, the warm, moist, humid air blanketing his skin. He was
in Indo-China again, a knife-edge time, on the run after snatching a base
payroll in Long Tan, ten months before the Prime Minister brought the troops
home. It was another four years before Wyatt had gone home. He had a new
identity by then, his skills were sharper, and he was even less inclined to
lead a straight life.

The passengers straggled across the
tarmac to the immigration hall. Three queues formed, a small one for local
residents returning to Vanuatu, two longer ones for the visitors, Australian
and New Zealand tourists mostly, with a handful of others there on business of
some kind.

Wyatt passed through immigration
after ten minutes in the queue and collected his luggage. It was a collapsible
leather suitcase which hed bought at Melbourne airport and stuffed with
T-shirts, paperbacks and pharmacy items from the shops scattered through the
international and domestic terminals. He hoped it would pass inspection. He had
nothing to declare but plenty to hide. The customs official who tried to
imagine a life from the contents of Wyatts case would end up with more
questions than answers.

But he was waved through to the
arrivals lounge. He stood uncertainly near the main terminal exits. It was a
small place, consisting of no more than a bank, a dutyfree shop and tourist
information counter. Well, hed need money before he could do anything. He
crossed to the bank, changed a hundred dollars for small denomination vatu
notes, and went in search of a telephone. De Lisle was listed: a number in the
high thousands on Kumul Highway.