19

  Dunlop erased the tape by recording a radio special of Elvis' Christmas Songs over it. Not the best work Elvis ever did, he thought. He burned the evidence of his forgery. Childless, with his parents both dead, no siblings and an angry ex-wife, Frank Carter's Christmases had been a virtual zero. No presents, no cards other than the routine business ones. He'd grown used to it and if Luke Dunlop's Christmas was slightly bleaker, he didn't notice, other than to feel a greater relief when the day was over.

  It was a couple of days later, on Friday, that an electronic mail message told him to contact Kimonides. He telephoned him at the CCA headquarters.

  'It's going down,' the Inspector said. 'No snags. We pick Mr Crane up at the appointed time and place. He had a good Christmas and he's looking forward to the new year. I'll be the chauffeur.'

  Dunlop hung up. So everything was all right. Loew had received his package and hadn't smelled a rat. Just the weekend to get through.

  On Saturday he went to the course, collected his new clubs and played a round in the company of two other bachelors. He shot an eighty-one and liked the feel of the new putter. Three light beers, a stir-fry, a couple of chapters of Deighton's Spy Sinker and bed. Sunday was tougher. No diversions possible. He reviewed the circumstances continually—what had to go right and what might go wrong. You had to assume two assailants, more was unlikely. The fewer talking mouths in on a job like this the better. Good men probably, but not necessarily reliable. One thing was sure—they'd be trying to off Loew without killing anyone else. After Russell Street, Walsh Street and Winchester, the underworld didn't need the heat that came with dead policemen.

  There were a lot of unknown variables. How gungho was Kimonides, and how good was he? How sharp was Loew? If the hit failed he'd have to get Loew himself and that wouldn't be easy. Not doing it right. The only weapon he had was the .38 Terrier which was a good gun. But there'd be other guns, bigger ones. Dunlop had shot men and been shot at. He wouldn't freeze or dirty his pants. But on the force it was fairly simple—protect yourself, your colleagues and civilians, get your man. This was much trickier. He thought of some of the cops he'd known who'd turned bad—done hits disguised as police work, freelanced. He'd despised them. Now he'd be grateful for a little advice on how it was done.

  He drove to Long Bay, arriving shortly before six p.m. The day was clear and the weather forecast for the next day was more of the same. Nothing important was going to happen here, but Dunlop wanted to get the feel of the whole operation. He sat in his car and surveyed the scene. Kimonides will park there. We'll collect Loew at that gate and walk him this way. Kimonides drives. I sit in the back. Right.

  He drove the most direct route to Botany—up Anzac Parade, turning off at Wentworth Road. The safe house was in Keats Street, near the railway goods siding. He drove slowly past, turning at the end of the street and coming back, noting every detail. The house was the middle one of three more or less identical. It was an undistinguished stucco bungalow, painted white but many years before. Time and the industrially-polluted air had faded it to a flat, peeling grey. The tile roof was missing its canopy and the iron over the verandah was heavily rusted. The front yard was concreted over and a couple of still-rolled, yellowed local newspapers had accumulated at the bottom of the steps. The house wore a neglected, but not unoccupied air. The carport was newish, solidly built, with fresh oil spots on the cement. The grass beyond that had been cut recently. The TV antenna was new. There was a Christmas holly wreath attached to the front door.

  Nice touch, Dunlop thought. He drove around the block and investigated the general layout. Deep backyards. No lane. The street in front, houses on both sides and at the rear. No tall trees. No high-rise buildings within rifle shot. He parked at the nearest crossroad, a slightly high point in a flat landscape, and tried to imagine how it would happen. Who could say? By foot over the back fences? By car up Keats Street? Take your pick. A plane roared low overhead, causing Dunlop to flinch at the sound and the stench. Maybe they'll parachute in, he thought.

  Loew examined the suit and other things issued to him on Sunday afternoon. Not a bad cut. Fair fit. Reasonable shirt and shoes and the tie was all right. Better than the gear he'd been wearing to the trial and it was smart to have a completely different outfit. Showed they were thinking. Sunglasses, too. He'd need them because he wasn't going to wear a patch. No way. But Christ Almighty, the light hurt. He'd packed and unpacked the overnight bag a couple of times already. Not that there was much to take away from here. A bit of legal stuff, Cassie's letters, her book.

  He sat on the bed and lit a cigarette, definitely the last, and picked up the passport. He'd never had one before. You didn't need a passport for New Zealand back when he'd almost made his flit. He'd heard that you did now. Not that he was planning to go there. Pacific paradises with Cassie—that was the shot. The photograph looked vaguely like him, but could be anyone of his general appearance: 'Crane, Arnold, Australian, 06 May 55, Male, Maroubra, Aust., 01 Dec 91 . . .' The date of expiry came as a shock—01 Dec 01. What sort of a date was that? It was the next fucking century. He hadn't expected to live this one out. Well, maybe he would. They didn't put height and colour of eyes on passports any more apparently, but there was all this computer writing along the bottom that could mean any fucking thing.

  A figure appeared at the cell door. 'Can I come in?'

  Loew's pulse raced. The psychologist. What the hell would he want? Better be nice. 'Sure. Let him in.'

  The guard unlocked the door and Derek Hammond entered the cell. He shook hands with Loew.

  'Soon, is it, Kerry?'

  'Yeah.'

  'Feeling all right?'

  'I'm fine.'

  'How was Christmas?'

  Loew blinked. Christmas. He couldn't remember a thing about it. All that came into his head was the words of the old country and western song:

  It was Christmas in prison and the food was real good, We had turkeys and pistols carved out of wood.

  Was this a loaded question? 'It was about the same as usual,' he said. 'I got a present from my wife. Her book.'

  Hammond nodded. 'Good. Good. You don't look too well. A bit pale. How's the eye?'

  'Okay.'

  'You know it's going to be hard, don't you? Coping with things—a new life, new identity.'

  'It's what I want.'

  'Good. Good.'

  What is this prick on about? What's his fucking name again? Harrison, no, Hammond Are the bastards pulling some kind of trick this late in the piece? Have to say something right. 'I won't be on my own, Dr Hammond,' Loew said. 'I'll have some pretty good help.'

  'That's right.' Hammond held out his hand again. 'Best of luck to you.'

  Loew shook the hand. Go fuck yourself, headshrinker.

  20

  Loew stepped through the gate, adjusted his sunglasses and took a deep breath. It's all a lie, he thought. The air doesn't smell any bloody different.

  'We've got a car waiting, Mr Crane,' Gregory Kimonides said. 'If you'd like to just step this way.'

  Loew nodded at Dunlop. 'Gidday.'

  Dunlop returned the nod.

  Kimonides had been worried about the patch. He approved of the dark glasses. 'How's the eye?'

  'Fine,' Loew said. In fact it was giving him hell and he'd almost fainted when he stood up after a long wait while they processed him for the last time. He still felt a bit unsteady.

  Dunlop was dry-throated and nervous and was surprised to find that Kimonides was edgy, too. He'd smoked three cigarettes and fretted through a short delay before Loew appeared and there was a falseness in his smooth manner now. He was overplaying it. Dunlop would have expected him to be cocky. The guilty verdict had come in on Christmas Eve and Davies and Spencer were in custody awaiting sentencing. The CCA was claiming credit for the conviction. Now they were paying off. Everything going like clockwork. So why is he so nervous? Maybe the drive'll calm him down.

  The car was a white Calais. Kimonides got behind the wheel. Dunlop slid into the back beside Loew who looked out at the traffic.

  'Got any backup?' he asked.

  Dunlop shook his head as Kimonides started the car.

  'Bit light on, aren't you?'

  Kimonides laughed as he waited to pull out. He spoke more loudly than he needed to. 'Didn't you hear about what happened at that safe house down in Melbourne?'

  'No,' Loew said. 'I've been out of touch.'

  'Some joint in the suburbs, blokes coming and going. The neighbours called the local uniforms who weren't in the know and they staged a drug raid. Nearly got their fucking heads blown off. Shit!'

  He narrowly missed being hit as the Calais shot forward onto the roadway. 'Fuckwit,' he yelled.

  Loew and Dunlop exchanged glances. 'Have you seen my wife again?' Loew asked.

  Dunlop shook his head.

  'Ever driven one of these?' Kimonides said.

  'I like Fords,' Loew said.

  The policeman sounded his horn to pass and drove too fast in the right lane. 'Great cars. You want to try one.'

  'Maybe I will when I'm in Bundy.'

  Kimonides beeped again but couldn't overtake. 'Ever been there?'

  'No.'

  'How about we all shut up,' Dunlop snapped. 'And you concentrate on your bloody driving. If we have a prang we'll really be in the shit.'

  Kimonides lit a cigarette. 'Edgy, mate?'

  'Dice the fuckin' smoke, will you?' Loew said. 'I'm trying to stop.'

  The remainder of the drive to Botany was done in silence.

  Kimonides backed the Calais into the carport. Loew stared out the tinted window at the house. 'Bit of a dump. Why don't we go straight to the airport and sit in the bar?'

  'You're joking,' Kimonides said. 'Anyway, we've got a few things to go over. Flights can be delayed, all that shit. We can phone from here and see what's going on.'

  Dunlop said, 'Hang on. Give us the keys. I'll take a look around.' The two men waited in the car while he quickly scouted the backyard. He opened the back door and walked through the house with his .38 in his hand. Kitchen, two bedrooms, living room. Blinds, bars on most windows. All rooms empty except for basic furniture. The telephone worked. He put the gun away and went out the front way. 'All clear. I'll just wander up the street a bit.'

  Kimonides and Loew went into the house. Dunlop slung his light jacket with the .38 in a pocket over his arm. In open-neck shirt and drill trousers, hands in pockets, he walked along the street giving the houses a quick once-over. A woman hosing her front garden smiled at him. Through an open window he could hear the theme music for the end of the six o'clock news. The evening was warm. Good time for a beer in the backyard. He could smell a barbecue and realised he hadn't eaten all day and was suddenly hungry and thirsty. He wondered what supplies had been laid on in the house.

  Loew and Kimonides were drinking beer in the kitchen. The policeman had taken off his stylish jacket and hung it carefully over a chair. He wore a pistol in a shoulder holster. The car keys with a miniature gun attached were on the table next to a slab of Foster's. Flash, Dunlop thought. Too bloody flash. He opened a can from the box. 'Anything to eat?'

  'Sandwiches in the fridge,' Kimonides said. 'Looks like crap. How was the recce?'

  Dunlop shrugged. 'Looks all right.' He opened the fridge and took out a sandwich wrapped in plastic film. Cheese. 'Want some?'

  Loew shook his head, drained his can and popped another.

  'Go easy,' Dunlop said.

  'Get fucked.'

  'Watch it, Kerry,' Kimonides said. 'Yeah, I'll have a sandwich. Thanks. Dunlop's got some good advice for you. Better listen.'

  Loew drew in a long, sour breath. The beer tasted strange, not like he remembered it. Sort of chemical. And he was dying for a smoke. His eye was on fire again. But he had to play along for now. He forced a grin. 'Okay, sorry. But the name's Arnold, remember? I might try Arnie, like Schwarzenegger. You know?'

  Something seriously wrong with him, Dunlop thought. Not just emotionally. He's in pain. He checked his watch. Six forty-five. Say almost an hour before we head for the airport. He draped his jacket across a chair and sat down, keeping his right hand close to the gun. The sandwich was tasteless and he laid it aside after one bite. Kimonides did the same. The policeman got up and went to the front of the house, returning after a minute and then checking the back.

  Dunlop launched into a speech about the difficulties people experienced under relocation and identity change. He outlined several drills and exercises that could be done to acquire familiarity with the name, to learn to respond to it automatically.

  'You write it out a hundred times. Like at school. Remember?'

  'Sure, sure,' Loew said. His nerves were screaming. Cassie said smoking only relieved smoking stress. Well, bugger her. He needed a smoke. 'Look. I've gotta have a cigarette. I can't take all this in unless I have a smoke.'

  Kimonides grinned and offered his Rothmans. 'Know how you feel.'

  Loew lit up and immediately felt better. 'Thanks, Greg. Where were we? Oh, how're we going for time? They didn't give me a watch. By the way, what about the money? How's that going to work?'

  'We've got a bit of time. Anyway, I can tell you about that in the plane.'

  'Fair enough.' Loew puffed luxuriously and opened another can. 'Last one. You better not, Greg. I hear they've got real tough on drink driving. I'll have to watch that in Bundy. I remember when I used to drive as pissed as a parrot.'

  'You'll have to watch a lot of things,' Dunlop said. 'Learning to sign your . . .'

  The glass in the kitchen window shattered and a shotgun barrel pointed through the bars, swivelling. Kimonides swore, lunged up, bumped Loew from his seat and reached under the table. Dunlop grabbed his gun as the blast shook the small room. Plaster and dust filled the space. Half-blinded, he heard the slide action and snapped a shot at the window. A man came through the door. Dunlop glimpsed him out of the corner of his eye. There was another blast and the man's head exploded, showering the white refrigerator with blood. Kimonides was jacking another shell into the chamber of a sawn-off shotgun. He fired again, this time at the window. Dunlop heard footsteps in the hall. A balaclava-covered head appeared and he fired at it. Now, he thought. Get him now!

  But Loew had grabbed Kimonides' pistol from the holster and used it to batter the policeman's head. Kimonides yelled and dropped the shotgun. Loew fired as Dunlop swung his gun up to get a shot. The bullet missed by a fraction. Dunlop rolled away, smashing his shoulder into a leg of the table. His hand went numb. He couldn't feel the trigger. Loew fired again, missing again.

  'You fuckers! Lousy bastards!' He snatched the car keys from the table and dashed out. Dunlop lurched to his feet, his numb arm dangling. He cannoned into Kimonides who was scrambling to pick up the shotgun. Both men fell heavily. Two shots sounded in the passage. Dunlop got up and threw himself through the door. He fell over the body of the balaclava wearer. The man was slumped against the wall, staring sightlessly. Kimonides, bleeding heavily, staggered into the passage, clutching the shotgun. A motor roared into life.

  'Fucking hell,' Kimonides screamed. 'The whole thing's gone wrong!'

  Dunlop ran to the front door and into the street in time to see the Calais whip around the corner with the tyres screaming, sending up a stink of burning rubber. A Hiace van with the engine running stood at the curb a few doors along from the safe house. It started to move as Dunlop appeared. He ran at it like a bullfighter gone berserk, pistol raised, screaming.

  'Get out! Get out!'

  He fired high. The bullet whined off the top of the van. The driver stalled the vehicle and leaped out. Dunlop clubbed him down with a wild backhand sweep and jumped behind the wheel, started the engine. He was moving but something was hammering on the passenger side. He saw Kimonides' contorted face, eyes bulging. He slowed. The policeman opened the door and struggled inside. Dunlop accelerated away with the passenger door swinging wildly. He cornered at speed, close to the kerb; the lamp post swept the door from its hinges.

  Kimonides groaned as he heaved himself into a sitting position. He still held the shotgun, grasped it like a life jacket. He wiped blood from his face and spat out onto the road. Dunlop fought the wheel, adjusted to the unfamiliar controls and kept the van moving. He realised that he'd transferred the .38 to his left hand when he'd started the van's motor. He shoved it into the pocket in the driver's door, wondering how many rounds were left. He drove automatically, cursing when he couldn't make a legal turn into Anzac Parade.

  'Dunlop.'

  'Shut up.'

  Dunlop waited for what seemed like an hour but was possibly two minutes. A gap opened in the traffic and he swung out into it. A startled driver hammered his horn and yelled. Dunlop had to slow to get properly into the traffic stream. The Calais was nowhere in sight.

  'The fuck are you doing?' Kimonides said. 'We've got to get help. Stop at a phone.'

  Dunlop ignored him. Plenty of fuel Thank Christ for that. He pushed on towards the city.

  'Stop,' Kimonides said.

  'You going to use the shotgun, Inspector? You're pretty good with it. Want to tell me how it happened to be sitting there under the table?'

  Kimonides rubbed his face. Blood had dripped and smeared across his tailored shirt and the empty shoulder holster looked absurd, like a toy. He checked the shotgun. Four shells.

  'How many, Inspector?' Dunlop said.

  'Four.'

  'You were ready. Tell me about it.'

  Kimonides found a packet of Winfield Red and a disposable lighter in the utilities compartment. He lit up and felt better. 'Why should I tell you anything?'

  Dunlop slowed as the traffic thickened closer to the city. 'You'd better make a decision. We look a bit fucking strange with the door off. Either jump out or stop sitting there like something out of The Godfather.'

 

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