Death is Forever (24 page)

“No,” Matthew Windsor said. “Street has worked too many sides of too many political fences. I don’t trust him.”

“ASIO vouches for him,” Nan Faulkner said curtly, stubbing out her cigarillo. “So does MI-Six.”

“MI-Six has vouched for a lot of traitors.”

Faulkner swore, lit another cigarillo, and watched the man who sat opposite her broad teak desk.

“I could make it an order,” she said, exhaling a stream of smoke.

“You’ve got my resignation. Use it.”

“I’d rather use you.” She drummed her fingers on the desk, then reached a decision. She opened the belly drawer, pulled out a battery-operated tape player, and set it on the desk. “Listen to this.”

She punched a button and the tape began to play.

Windsor looked sharply at Faulkner, then listened intently. The first voice was male and unfamiliar. The second voice was Cole Blackburn’s. The conversation made it clear that Cole had been employed to find the diamond mine regardless of whatever it cost—including Erin Windsor’s life.

“I recognized Blackburn’s voice,” Windsor said when the tape stopped running. “I presume the other man was Chen Wing?”

“A good guess.” She smiled thinly. “But then, you’re good at what you do. Yes, it was Wing.”

Windsor waited.

“You’re not stupid, Matt,” Faulkner said impatiently. “You know what this means.”

“Tell me what you think it means.”

“Cole Blackburn isn’t the loose cannon we thought he was. He’s in the pay of an ambitious Hong Kong clan run by a cunning, ruthless old bastard who happens to be Chen Wing’s uncle.” Faulkner waited, but no comment came from the big, impassive man who sat opposite her. She exhaled smoke and made a disgusted sound. “Your daughter’s life is on the line and you’ve got nothing to say?”

“Erin’s life has been on the line since she was named Abelard Windsor’s heir.”

“Shit.” Faulkner sucked in hard, making the cigarillo’s narrow tip glow. “We made a mistake not taking Blackburn out of the game, and you know it.”

“No, I don’t know it. Nothing I just heard proves he signed up as Erin’s assassin.”

Faulkner gave him a look of disgust. “Wing says nothing matters after the mine is found, and Blackburn doesn’t say squat about it.”

“That doesn’t prove he—” Windsor began.

“Jesus, Matt,” Faulkner cut in angrily. “I thought you’d be happy to hear we’re sending a bodyguard in for your daughter. Otherwise she’ll die as soon as the mine is found and the Chen clan will control half of the mine outright and you know it as well as I do.”

“The Australian government—”

“No!” Faulkner said, slashing across Windsor’s words. “The Aussies won’t lift a finger. The boys down under would be more than happy to stick it up the cartel’s ass and break it off. They’re still mad as hell about the Argyle mine.”

“That doesn’t mean Blackburn is an assassin. He’s spent his whole life avoiding being owned by anyone or anything. Why would he suddenly change his pattern?”

“Money,” she said succinctly.

“He’s been offered money before. Lots of it. He turned it down.”

“Pull your head out of your ass. If Sleeping Dog Mines is half what we suspect it is, a whole lot of set patterns will change real quick. If Blackburn is somebody’s mole, this would be the score that would bring him to the surface.”

“I still don’t buy it.”

“I’m not selling,” Faulkner said coldly, “I’m
telling
. Europe is going through the biggest economic restructuring since they scragged the czar, the Soviets are flat starved for international currency, and the cartel is the biggest cash cow they have. If the cartel goes under, so do the Soviets. We don’t want that to happen, babe. We have to control that fucking mine!” She blew out a dense burst of smoke. “I’ve taken a lot of flak over your refusal to recommend Thomas as your daughter’s diamond expert.”

“Thomas is CIA.”

“You bet your ass he is. That’s the whole point.”

“No. The point is that he would trade Erin’s life for the mine any time he got an offer.” Windsor watched Faulkner, seeing the new lines of strain. “Who’s squeezing you?”

“You know better than to ask. I sure as hell know better than to answer.”

Faulkner smoked in tight silence for a few moments before she closed her eyes and went on wearily.

“I shouldn’t tell you this, but if I can’t trust you I might as well cut my throat and get the waiting over with.” She stubbed out her half-smoked cigarillo. “Either we give Jason Street a letter of introduction to Erin or we can forget all the strategic minerals we’ve been getting from ConMin. South Africa won’t sell them to us. Neither will the Soviets. Which means the U.S. will be shit out of luck real quick.”

Silence was Windsor’s only answer.

“Say something, Matt.”

“Like what? I’m having a hard time believing that ConMin is willing to go that far over a diamond mine that may or may not exist.”

“Oh, they’re willing. Not eager, mind you, but willing. You know where Erin is. Call her. Use my phone.”

“No.”

Faulkner looked across her desk in blank disbelief. “What?”

“I was ambitious once. I came close to destroying Erin by using her as an unwitting source of disinformation for a Soviet agent known as Hans Schmidt.”

Faulkner sat very still. She’d read the file and wondered about Windsor’s role. Now she knew.

“I told myself it would be all right,” Windsor said. “I’d gone over Schmidt’s file until I had it memorized. I’d questioned other sources. If he wasn’t a Soviet, he would have been everything a father could want for his daughter—intelligent, strong, ambitious, a real comer. He seemed very much in love with Erin. She was certainly in love with him.”

“And if you doubled him,” Faulkner said, “you’d have had a direct pipeline to the Kremlin at a time when the U.S. was spending too many days on yellow alert.”

“Yes,” Windsor said simply. He closed his eyes for a moment, knowing he couldn’t conceal the old echoes of pain, rage, and shame from Faulkner’s shrewd black eyes.

She sighed. “Don’t blame yourself. You had no way of knowing Hans got off by cutting up girls.”

“No, but if I’d told Erin that Hans was a Soviet agent, she would have broken the engagement. As it was…” Windsor’s voice faded.

“As it was, your daughter ended up in the hospital. It wasn’t your fault. And you got even,” Faulkner pointed out with a thin, cold smile. “You got even but good.”

There was silence for the space of several breaths. Faulkner waited.

Finally Windsor began talking again.

“I’m no longer sure about absolute right and absolute wrong,” he said slowly. “I did what I thought was right, what was necessary, what was useful, and I got a little gold star in my file because the information Erin innocently passed on to her loving fiancé threw the Soviets off the scent of our secret negotiations with Iran for a whole three weeks.”

“Every hour of that time was vital,” Faulkner pointed out. “We made some real gains, Matt. We came very close to getting the moderates in power.”

“Close, but no cigar. For that my daughter was beaten, raped, and tortured by a sadist. Erin hasn’t trusted or loved me or any other man since that day.
Seven years.
She’s not even thirty. She’s got a whole lifetime of nightmares and distrust and loneliness ahead of her.”

Faulkner grimaced but didn’t disagree.

“Every second I stayed with her in the hospital,” Windsor said quietly, “I swore that I would never knowingly use an innocent—
any
innocent—again. Ours is a game for informed, consenting adults.” He met Faulkner’s dark glance. “The answer is still no.”

The door to Faulkner’s office opened. Two men came in and stood at either side of Windsor.

With a great effort he throttled the rage that made his body rigid. If he lost his temper, there would be no chance of helping Erin at all.

“House arrest?” he asked in a clipped voice.

“I’m sorry,” Faulkner said simply. “A letter went out to your daughter yesterday. Jason Street will be on the Windsor station by tomorrow. Erin will be safe.”

Hugo van Luik had forgotten how godforsaken diamond grounds and diamond mines could be. The Argyle mine was in a place so desolate and remote that workers had to be flown in, given room and board, and then flown out at regular intervals, like military personnel at a hardship post. The place was a bleak celebration of technological efficiency, an orderly assembly of barracks and mess halls, power shovels, ore crushers, conveyor belts, and X-ray tables. Argyle produced diamonds with mechanical regularity, even if it crushed some promising gemstones in the process.

Van Luik only wished the process crushed more. Diamond grit was useful. At the moment, gemstones weren’t.

Sighing, he leaned back into the Otter’s uncomfortable seat. He was relieved to have the obligatory visit to the Argyle mine behind him, complete with still photos of men in suits shaking hands and smiling into the camera. Van Luik no longer cared for the politically important process of pressing flesh and giving personal assurances to strangers that their lives were important in the international economic scheme.

Yet he’d played his role with all the skill of the actor he’d once wanted to be. He hadn’t endured the tour out of respect for the Argyle mine and its huge output of muddy industrial bort or its modest numbers of tiny pale-pink or straw-yellow gemstones. A Japanese syndicate had recently been sniffing around Argyle, considering the purchase of the mine.

Van Luik wished them well.

Anything that would keep the Japanese from experimenting with better and cheaper ways to produce industrial diamonds was a plus for ConMin. If the Japanese purchased Argyle, it would be something of a relief. The Japanese would be more sophisticated and less impatient with the delicate balancing act among the diamond cartel’s members than Australia was.

Van Luik tried to ignore the exquisite tendrils of pain infiltrating the nerves behind his eyes. The plane bucked in the torrid, seething currents of afternoon air. The buildup was on, bringing with it a wet heat that heightened van Luik’s headaches and made the blinding tropical light a relentless source of pain. He closed his eyes and endured.

Not until the twin-engine Otter banked over the shimmering, man-made sprawl of Lake Argyle and lined up for a landing at Kununurra did van Luik open his eyes, mop his flushed face and sweaty neck with a handkerchief, and prepare to deal with the real reason he’d come to Australia.

Grimacing at a deep thrust of pain, he squinted out the window. River swamps, low-rising red rocks, scrubland, and a town like a crusty rash spread below him. As the plane descended, the temperature rose. The climate was as close to hell as a living man could expect to endure. It made van Luik question the sanity of the English settlers who had chosen Western Australia for their home.

The Otter touched down smoothly on the sun-softened tarmac and taxied to the mining company tiedown next to the small tin-roofed passenger terminal. The cabin steward popped the door and lowered the stairs.

“There’s your flight, right on time, sir,” the steward said, pointing to an aircraft that had appeared in the south and was headed straight in for a landing. “It will leave in ninety minutes.”

Van Luik grunted his understanding and headed for the terminal. The real purpose of his visit would take only a few minutes, but he expected it to be no more pleasant than his tour of Argyle had been. Given a choice, he would never have taken the chance of being seen with Jason Street.

But van Luik hadn’t been given a choice.

Part of the reason was that the letter he carried was too important to be entrusted to any ordinary courier. The more pressing issue was that van Luik’s employers were unhappy with his handling of Abelard Windsor’s legacy. Being dispatched as an errand boy without company planes and executive luxury was a sign of just how deep ConMin’s displeasure went.

The message between the lines was quite simple: If the matter of the mine wasn’t resolved to ConMin’s satisfaction, Hugo van Luik was as expendable as Jason Street.

The Dutchman felt a damp chill as he walked into the heavily air-conditioned building. The change in temperature was welcome, but it caused an explosion of pain behind his eyes that loosened his knees. There were a half-dozen people in front of the Ansett airlines ticket counter—two barefoot Aborigines in jackaroo hats and denim pants, and an outback wife with a screaming baby and two shrill, quarrelsome children.

Van Luik headed for the louvered swinging doors beneath the sign that said
pub
. The interior was mercifully dim. Jason Street sat on one of the five stools that lined the zinc bar, talking to the dumpy woman who was the bartender. Unhappily van Luik eyed the big man in his dusty khakis and unpolished boots. A broad-brimmed hat with a snakeskin band was pushed back on Street’s head, revealing a sharp demarcation between his weathered face and the pale skin normally covered by the hat.

“Now there’s a weary tourist if ever there was,” Street said cheerily to him. “Hey, mate, might you be interested in an outback tour?”

Van Luik forced himself to smile. “Not at this time, but I’ll be bringing my wife on my next trip. Perhaps we could work out an itinerary that would not be too strenuous?”

Street smiled and turned to the barmaid. “Two ales, luv, and one for yourself too.”

The woman produced two cans of Castlemain ale, pulled the metal tabs on them, and slid them across the bar. Street picked both up and led van Luik to a small table in the darkest corner of the little pub. Behind him the barmaid pulled the tab on a third can and retreated to a chair behind the cash register.

“Here you go, mate,” Street said.

“I am not your mate,” van Luik said in a vicious tone that went no further than Street’s ears.

Street slouched in a chair, took a pull from his drink, and grinned. “Bit irritable, aren’t we? Heat getting us down?”

The Dutchman turned his back on the rest of the room so he couldn’t be overheard. “Speak softly,
foutre
.”

Street knew enough French to know he’d been insulted. He smiled more widely. “What are you going to do, mate, fire me?”

“There are dozens of security consultants in the world,” van Luik said. “Are you certain I haven’t already hired your replacement?”

Street’s smile turned cold. “Send him on. I’ll even give him the first shot. But he’d better be good, because he won’t get another. When I’ve cut him up for the flies, I’ll come for you. You understand,
mate?
”

They glared at one another for a long moment. Finally van Luik broke off the contact, picked up the can, and drank. The ale was lukewarm and bitter.

“What progress have you made?” van Luik asked.

“No progress to make until I get on the station, and you bloody well know it.”

“I assume you have something more effective and deniable than a car smash in mind.”

Street smiled. “I do, mate. I do.”

The pain in van Luik’s head was so great that his fingers tingled. He flexed his hands but didn’t lift a finger to pinch the flesh at the bridge of his nose.

“Where are the subjects now?” van Luik demanded softly.

“At the station—where else? They’ve made some short recon trips while information is being collated.”

“And?”

“The only shiny stuff they found was their own sweat.”

“You’re certain?”

“They have rotten radio security,” Street said easily. “The scrambler on the satellite uplink is identical to one in my Darwin office. I’ve read every piece of mail they’ve sent.”

Van Luik took another small sip of ale, wondering why he had the uneasy feeling that Street was lying.

“How is the woman standing up to the rigors of the climate and the land?” van Luik asked.

“The buildup got to her real quick. She’s short-tempered as a cat in a bath. She and Blackburn aren’t as chummy as they were.”

“How close were they?”

“Fucking close.”

Van Luik grimaced. “Has she made any progress on finding clues in ‘Chunder’?”

“She spends a lot of time reading it.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“A person does not work on a puzzle that is already solved.” There was silence while van Luik fought against the impulse to squeeze the bridge of his nose. “How is Mr. Blackburn holding up?”

“Mean as a snake,” Street said cheerfully. “Going on short rations will do that to a man.”

“Rations? Is there a problem getting food to the station?”

“Food isn’t the problem. Sex is. They’re sleeping in the same room but not on the same blanket.”

“Your information is quite complete.”

“That’s my job,” Street said. “If you don’t believe me, go to the station yourself.”

“I will leave that dubious pleasure to you.” Van Luik drew a thin parcel from his suit coat and slid it across the table. The packet was wrapped in bright yellow plastic and secured with string wrapped in a figure eight around two buttons. “Do not open it.”

Street glanced down. “What is it?”

“Your entree, a letter of introduction to Miss Windsor.” Van Luik reached into his pocket and withdrew a sheet of paper. “This is a photocopy.”

Without a word, Street took the sheet, read quickly, and looked up.

“Genuine?” Street asked bluntly.

“Does it matter?”

“Not as long as the signature passes muster.”

“There will be no difficulty with the signature.”

“Bloody hell. Somebody really twisted the CIA’s balls.” Street shot van Luik a glance. “ConMin? Or was it their own government?”

Van Luik retrieved the copy, stood, and walked out without a word.

It wasn’t until the plane was over the vast Pacific Ocean that painkillers subdued van Luik’s savage headache. Just as he slid into sleep, the thought that had nagged beneath the pulses of agony surfaced.

Street had never mentioned having any satellite scrambler except the one van Luik had given him.