Black Ice (26 page)

Saturday 13 April, 8.10 pm

All right, all right, Jill thought. It doesn't have to be anything too bad. Damien's probably okay.

She knew she was kidding herself. In the stairwell of the housing commission unit block, she punched in Gabriel's number. Waited.

Suddenly, she whipped her head around to a sound. A baby gangster, his undies protruding from the top of his jeans, sized her up as a mark.

'What?' she shouted in his direction. He took off.

Gabriel answered. Thank God. 'Gabe. I think we've got a problem. Nader's over at the clan lab. I think something bad is going down. Nader missed our date and I just got a hang-up from Damien's phone.' She listened a moment and answered, 'Okay, I'll see you there.'

She ran back into her unit.

'Make yourself at home, you guys,' she said, forcing herself to walk to her bedroom. 'I've gotta bail.'

'Where are you going?' Ingrid wanted to know. 'Not that Gabriel again? I told ya you should stay away from him.'

'I hate Archangel Gabriel,' said Jelly, his face darkening.

I've gotta get out of here, thought Jill. 'Jelly, it's okay,' she said. 'It's just that an old friend of mine is sad, and I'm gonna go and keep her company tonight.'

'I'll come too,' said Jelly. 'I'm good company. We could teach her how to make honeycomb.'

'Next time,' said Jill. 'Promise.'

She gave Ingrid a wave and bolted for the stairwell.

'Come on, Damo. Let's go tell your mate, Whitey, about the trouble you've got him into.'

Damien could feel Nader's arm draped across his shoulder, but remarkably very little else. He knew that he should be shitting himself – quite literally, given his dicky stomach – but he couldn't seem to process things properly. He had an intellectual knowledge of what was going on: Kasem Nader now knew he was working with the cops to try to bring him down. But the fear of what Nader would do to him seemed to be missing. He was faintly aware of a mosquito-like drone of worry somewhere at the back of his consciousness, but he very deliberately swatted at it every time it grew too loud.

Now he waited in the lounge room, staring blankly at Whitey.

'Now, Damo,' said Nader. 'Tell Whitey and Agassi what you've done.'

Damien stood up quietly.

'I'll start, shall I?' said Nader. 'And look, here's Urgill, back with the food. Just in time. Good man.'

'What's going on?' said Urgill.

'Well, that's just what we're about to let everyone know, Urgill. Have a seat.'

'But the food . . .' said Urgill.

'Sit your fucken fat arse down!'

Still unperturbed, Damien watched Nader walk over to the kitchen and pick up one of the many porno magazines Byron was always bringing over. Nader flicked through a couple of pages, then looked up.

'Damien,' said Nader, speaking calmly again, 'is a police informer.'

The room erupted. Urgill shot up from his seat, a plastic bag full of food dumping from his lap onto the floor. A container bearing some sort of yoghurt-like substance hit the ground hard and splattered white goop across the rug and onto one of Agassi's shoes. Agassi stood and rhythmically clenched and unclenched his fists.

'What the fuck!' yelled Whitey. 'What are you
talking
about, Kasem? As if Damien would do that! What's going on?'

'Damien,' said Nader. 'Your turn.'

Damien watched the white stuff drizzle down Agassi's shoelace. One fat droplet seemed to be gaining on another. He wondered whether it would catch up and form a superdrop before the first one hit the ground. His concentration was broken by the magazine waved in front of his face. He raised his eyes. Nader had rolled the porno magazine into a cylinder.

'Wake up, uni boy!'

Damien felt the magazine smack into the back of his head. His neck jerked forward and he bit his tongue.

'Now, get in here,' said Nader.

Damien remained silent as Kasem dragged him across the floor using his earlobe to steer. They stopped at the stove. Damien took in the glass beakers, crusty saucers and pans, the chemicals everywhere laid out in his carefully chaotic style.

'Now, are you gonna talk, Damo?' said Nader, 'or just stand around here like some deaf fucking mute?' He smacked the magazine into the back of Damien's head with each of his next four words. 'Because. I'm. Getting. Impatient.'

Damien knew he was fucked; he knew he should be trying to talk fast to try to get himself out of this mess. But this knowledge did nothing to help to reconnect whatever wire had tripped in his brain. And the fucking slapping to his head didn't help.

He stared at Whitey morosely. He felt a tear slip down his cheek.

'Kasem, man, what are you doing?' Whitey put his hand onto Nader's to block the next blow with the magazine. 'You've got something wrong. Damien and I started this thing. Why would he go to the police? Let's talk about this!'

'Get your fucking hand off me, cunt.' Nader's voice was low.

Whitey didn't move. He tried again. 'Kasem . . .' Damien noticed that Whitey was using his reasoning voice. He'd tried the same thing with Damien's mother once when she'd skitzed out in front of him. Nader drew back his arm, and, magazine still in hand, cracked his massive fist into Whitey's face. Damien thought he could feel the crunch of his mate's nose, breaking. Whitey hit the kitchen floor, smacking the back of his head on the bench on the way down. The reasoning voice hadn't worked on Damien's mother either.

'You, uni boy, are pissing me off,' said Nader. 'So we're gonna do this differently.' He turned the gas lever on the stove. 'Okay, now we're gonna talk.'

Saturday 13 April, 8.10 pm

'What the fuck is going on here?' Byron shouted.

Cassie kept the luscious smile up, even when the little bloke reached a hand into his tracksuit jacket. Christian exploded from his chair, sending it rocketing backwards into the wall of windows behind him. She sashayed slowly across the carpet from the wardrobe, tottering on her heels. Before opening the cupboard door, she'd once again loosened the belt on the trench-coat, smudged at her mascara and smeared a little at her lipstick. She flicked her tousled hair and flung her arms into the air.

'Surprise!' she said, and giggled. She bumped against an armchair and pretended to topple, tripping forward, one hand reaching out to the seat of the chair as though to stop herself falling all the way to the floor. She laughed again, and as she was righting herself, she angled her face towards the girl. What had Christian called her? Seren? Cassie's sheet of honey brown hair hid her face from the men. She dropped the smile, mouthed 'Shh', and told the girl with her eyes to just play it out. She prayed she'd done the right thing.

When Cassie had seen the device fall from Seren's hand she'd immediately guessed what it was. A camera. This girl had this whole drug deal on tape. She didn't know whether Seren was a cop, but she immediately felt she had to help her. The thought of Jill, out there undercover and vulnerable somewhere, suddenly flashed through Cassie's mind. She simply couldn't hide here and watch these men bust this girl. She prayed that there were people out there looking out for her sister.

She had to hand it to this Seren, whoever or whatever she was. The girl slipped seamlessly from total panic into the role of an outraged lover.

'Who the fuck is this, Christian?' Seren demanded, at exactly the same time as Christian said, 'Cassie! What the hell are you doing here?'

The bloke in the tracksuit started to zip up the bag, his bulging eyes darting all over the room, particularly towards the door. 'I don't know what the fuck this is, Worthington,' he said. 'I don't know what the fuck you think you're doing here, but I'm getting the fuck outta here.'

'Who is she?' Seren demanded, hands on hips.

Cassie laughed and continued staggering towards Christian's desk. 'Yeah, baby, tell me who I am,' she said, and laughed again. 'No. Did that come out wrong? Tell me who she is.' She stopped at the man with the bag and smiled widely. She twirled her fingertip close to his face. His eyes followed, as though hypnotised. 'And. Who. Are.
You
?' she said, huskily, touching the tip of his nose with her last word. The top of his head came just to her chin, and she knew his view down her coat was a wonderland.

Christian suddenly gave a shout of laughter. 'Cassie Jackson. You idiot! Where did you come from? What are you doing here?' He came around from behind the desk; put a hand on Byron's shoulder. 'Look, everyone, just calm down, okay? Cassie's a very dear friend of mine. And she's cool. Way cool. I don't know what she's doing here, but she looks a little worse for wear this evening, and I think we should all just chill a little bit.'

Byron looked up at Christian, his eyes glazed. 'Where did she come from?' he said.

'Cassie?' asked Christian.

'Don't be mad at me, baby,' she said. 'I've been waiting ages for you. I wanted to surprise you. I hid in there,' she gestured vaguely behind her, 'and fell asleep. What time is it anyway? Is it still Saturday?' She dropped her eyes briefly and spotted the camera on the floor near her foot. She nudged it carefully with the toe of her boot into a little nook beside the leg of the table. Then she turned her back to the skyline and plonked down on the desk. Three pairs of eyes watched every single move she made, two of them on her tits. She crossed her legs, slowly; the trench slipped open to the top of her thigh. The man in the tracksuit made a woofing sound, as though he'd just been punched in the gut.

'Who's a girl gotta do to get a drink around here, Christian?' she said. 'I'm thirsty.'

Saturday 13 April, 8.15 pm

Jill's back wheels lost traction on gravel taking a fifty-kilometre bend at ninety. She hammered the Magna down Woodville Road, weaving through the traffic as though the other vehicles stood still. I wish I had a siren on this bitch, she thought for the tenth time, overtaking a Honda in the breakdown lane.

She had to assume Damien had been busted. Why would else would he make a call and say nothing? He'd already told her Nader was in the house. Was the call a silent warning to her that something else was going on? Some kind of message because he couldn't speak? Had someone else got hold of his phone? The kid was in trouble; she knew it. She slowed for a red light ahead. Cars waited in both lanes. Damn. She steered into the empty right-only turning lane and carefully crossed the intersection, ignoring the bleating motorists behind her.

How bad could this get? she wondered. If the whole thing was blown and these guys bolted with the goods before she could get there, she and Gabriel would look like fools, especially to the ACC. But Superintendent Last would be the one to really cop it: passing up the opportunity to take down a known clan lab with offenders in custody, on the off chance that they might get something bigger. And they didn't even have any firm leads on whether Nader actually was importing precursors. It was all just speculation, and Last had believed in her enough to ask the ACC to back down while they ran the show. Fuck. Last would never trust her again.

And Damien. She thought about the kid's reaction when she and Gabe had detailed his role in this operation. Every emotion was painted across his face as he experienced it: fear, anger, guilt. Why had she ever thought he'd be able to pull this off?

She picked up her phone to call Last. He could get the local boys to go over there right now. But what if the plan was still intact? Or what if everyone overreacted and someone got hurt? The cops would have to be told about the chemicals inside and they would cordon off the street, go in with the megaphone. It'd end up a standoff. They wouldn't go in until everyone came out and if Nader chose to take hostages, the whole thing would go to shit.

Call. Don't call. What would be best here?

She dropped her mobile back onto the passenger seat for the third time. When a truck ahead suddenly slowed, she stood on the brakes. The phone flew forward, smacked into the footrest and skidded somewhere under the seat. Well, that decides that, she thought.

A couple of streets from Damien's she backed the speed off a little. She knew Gabriel couldn't have got here ahead of her. She planned to do a recce and decide what to do when she had some more information. If all seemed quiet in there, she'd wait for Gabe and talk through their next steps. If she discovered Damien was being hurt, that would be another story.

Jill ditched the Magna out the front of a redbrick home at the top of the street. The lighting for this road was brighter than most of the others around here, and fortunately it was a pretty dark evening. She hoped to be able to get as close as possible to the house to see whether she could hear what was happening inside. Risky, she knew. If Kasem didn't know what was going on and spotted her out here, she'd be hard pressed trying to explain what 'Krystal Peters' was doing hovering around a house in Nader's parents' street in Merrylands. She figured that she could pretend to be a lovesick stalker, disgruntled at his blowing off their date, who had come to his house to find him, and then spotted his car down the road. Whether he'd believe her or not was debatable. Whatever: any way she played this, he would not be happy to see her here. Best that he doesn't, then, she told herself.

She stopped jogging three houses from the clan lab and kept as close to the property boundary as possible, out of the pools of light glowing over the road. It all seemed pretty quiet. The tension in her shoulders scaled down a little. She hadn't known what to expect – a shootout on the lawn, a body on the front steps? But the house squatted silently, windows lit behind blinds: just another home in the suburbs.

No lights were on in the house next door, and Jill took the chance that no one was home. She stepped through the gap in the low brick wall that partitioned the home from the street and crept across the well-tended lawn. Shrubs and another low-lying fence now lay between her and Damien's house. She wriggled closer, the branches of a straggly bush raking through her hair, clutching at her clothes. She thought she could hear voices now and wondered whether she should climb the fence.

Men shouting. She couldn't make out what they were saying, but something was going down in there. Jill stepped up onto the lowest rung of the fence and cartwheeled over into the dark yard next door.

Whitey lay still at Damien's feet, blood oozing from his nose.

Someone had to say something. The gas was already shimmering the air around the stove, the sweet, distinctive smell setting off an alarm in Damien's head. Finally, he found his voice. 'Kasem.'

'Ah, you
can
speak, uni boy.'

'I don't know what you're trying to prove here,' Damien said, 'but can you do it some other way? The shit in this kitchen is already reactive enough without the gas going. I'll tell you whatever you want, but can we just shut the gas off and open some windows?' He reached out to turn off the stove.

Nader smacked the rolled-up magazine across the back of Damien's hand. 'Actually, mate,' he said, 'you can tell me what I want to know right now. Who is Krystal?'

Damien gave it his best shot. 'A, um, a girl from uni.'

'FUCKING LIAR!' screamed Nader. Then, in his reasonable, calm voice, he said, 'It's Krystal Peters. She's a fucking cop, isn't she, uni boy?'

'Yes.'

'Real name?'

'Detective Jill Jackson.' Damien watched the air shimmer.

'Urgill, Agassi, get over here.' Nader waved his hand above the benchtop. 'Pack up whatever shit you can carry and get it out of here now.' He turned back to Damien. 'Never bullshit a bullshitter, isn't that what they say, Damo? You chose the wrong side.'

Damien's brain threatened to piss off somewhere again. He forced himself to focus. 'Look, we can get this shit sorted out, Kasem, but you've got to turn the gas off now. Even if you get the chemicals out of here, there're a lot of by-products and gases that remain. You'll blow us all up!'

'Thanks, Damien. That's a good point. I just need the gas going another coupla minutes.'

Damien stared open-mouthed at this lunatic. What the fuck was he going to do? He nudged Whitey with his foot. Wake up, he wanted to scream. He could try to bolt for the door, but he couldn't leave Whitey here like this, in a house full of gas with Kasem Nader. Nader smiled back at him, seemingly amused by his desperation. Damien scrambled for the right thing to say to this idiot to make him stop.

'What do you want me to do?' he asked.

'Just what you're told in future, thanks, Damo. Remember our little talk about soldiers and generals? Well, I need you to stop trying to pretend that you have a cock, and just do whatever the fuck I tell you to do.'

'Okay, okay! Just turn the gas off.' Damien started to cough. His eyes streamed. 'Whitey's out cold, man. You're gonna kill him.'

'Actually, you'd better hope you can wake your little friend up pretty quickly, Damo, or that just might be the case.' Nader rolled the magazine in his hand into a tighter cylinder, and to Damien's mushrooming horror, shoved it into the toaster next to the stove and depressed the lever.

'I'll be outside waiting, Damo,' he said. 'We'll relocate this little enterprise and you'd better do as you're fucking told next time.'

Damien forced himself to be calm and careful. He might have three minutes, if he was very lucky and the place didn't go up even before the magazine ignited. He grabbed a beaker off the sink and jetted water into it from the cold tap. If this didn't wake his friend, he'd have to drag him out. He dashed the water into Whitey's face. Whitey coughed and moaned, and Damien started dragging him.

'What the fuck? Get off me!' Whitey struggled and thrashed.

'Whitey,' said Damien, bending close to his friend's ear. 'If you want to live, please get the fuck up and run.'