Defender (30 page)

"Finally, you're here," she said.

They remained silent for a time and allowed themselves to be carried away by the serenity of the music. A thousand miles, it seemed, from the troubles they had followed from the other side of the world.

Across Sydney, in an inner city street near Central Station, Jenny Sullivan tossed and turned.

Sweat flowed along every inch of her body, soaking into the sheets tangled around her long, brown legs. She rolled restlessly from one side of the bed to the next, trying to catch a puff of the breeze that seemed to be deliberately avoiding her open windows, cursing the antiquated air conditioner for choosing this summer of all summers to finally break down and die.

Sydney was in the grip of a meltdown. Temperatures had been in the high 30's for two weeks; bushfires were erupting across New South Wales, and local television stations bombarded viewers with warnings about total fire bans, arson investigations, conserving water, and protection against UV rays. Even in the evening, the heat was so unbearable it was impossible to sleep; and, as she lay there irritable and tired, she prayed for the break in the weather everyone was talking about, and dreamed of racing out into a heavy downpour, allowing the warm kiss of the rain to soak through to her tingling skin. Bring on the storm, she thought.

Suddenly, the peal of the bell interrupted her wishful thinking. She had answered many arrivals from the airport in the past, but there was something different about this one. His booking had been by phone, like many others, and yet her brief discussion with him remained at the forefront of her mind since. She had never met the man, and yet the cool timbre of his voice and the total sense of confidence that had pervaded his conversation were so overpowering that she had felt her anticipation grow from the very moment she had put down the phone.

"Don't be a loser," she said to herself, easing up from the disheveled bed.

Jenny quickly slipped her lithe, naked body into a short silk robe, kicked on a pair ofloafers, and headed out to the motel's reception, tousling her long black hair with both hands. When her eyes fell upon the dimly lit stranger who stood smoking beyond the locked glass doors of the lobby, her heart skipped a beat.

She was riveted by the primal lure of his features and the shadows cast upon them by the lights outside. She felt his piercing eyes strike at her through the darkness, unashamedly traversing every inch of her body. His solemn mien and casual self-confidence was intimidating. But in the instant that she began to feel uneasy and vulnerable, the tall, dark traveller flashed a broad smile, allaying her alarm and compelling her to let him in. Her heart was beating faster, and as she held his gaze assuredly she was aroused, discreetly drawing the already undersized robe up further over the peachy cheeks of her slender, tanned behind. Her movements suggested modesty but her erect nipples betrayed her.

"Now, don't tell me you're the little lady I spoke to on the phone?" His voice was a deep rumble. "A man couldn't be that lucky."

"It's me, I'm afraid. Manager, maid, cook and receptionist. All wrapped up into one tiny little package." She flirted openly, letting him in.

"And what a fine package it is," he breathed, deliberately allowing the back of his hand to brush against her thighs as he eased his way inside.

'I'm Jenny," she said softly.

"John," Lundt replied, using the pseudonym he was travelling under. "John Bogle."

He took her hand, holding it longer than necessary. She felt her anticipation rising.

"Have you decided how long you're going to stay here at the Sandpiper?" "Well, sweetheart, I reckon meeting you just added a week to my plans.

How about I pay for seven days and we'll see what happens?"

'I'm sure I can fit you in," she cooed. "This place can g.et pretty boring. People usually only stay a night and then fly off somewhere else. We're cheap, but we're close to the airport. I'm used to entertaining myself, so it'll be nice to have someone regular around."

She moved closer, leaning on the counter beside him, studying every inch of the rugged stranger as he signed into the motel register. She knew he wanted her. He made no attempt to disguise it, allowing his eyes to shamelessly wander all over her. Jenny wanted him, too. She couldn't explain it. It had been so long since she'd been with a man.

Slowly she slid even closer, cradling her full breasts in her arms, just inches from him, allowing the soft folds of the robe to fall open a little more, her swollen nipples pushing hard against the tight fabric.

"Here's your room key," she whispered, rattling it in her hand. "Number seven. Back outside and to the right. You can't miss it."

"Lucky seven," he replied softly, licking the end of the pen and sliding it deeply between the mounds of her breasts. "I might just pour myself a drink before I hit the hay. I could sure use some company."

"Give me a minute to freshen up. I'll be right with you."

"You OK?" Morgan whispered into Arena's hair. The music had stopped. He didn't know how late it was, but it was starting to get dark outside. Dusk. He felt a small patch of dampness against his shirt. Tears? "Ari?" he whispered again. She stirred.

"So much has happened," she began quietly. "So much that it's all become a jumble. William Evans's illness; that weasel Johnson sending me off to Malfajiri like Lara bloody Croft, supposedly to help you, only to find I was actually spying on you for him. All those people killed over there. Thousands of them. All that violence. And that smell, that terrible smell. Death, everywhere. Then, back in London and everything's the same. It's like a different world, a different planet." Morgan stroked her hair gently. He remained silent, letting Ari find her way amidst the mess of thoughts and memories streaming through her. "Following Cornell around the city on some stupid errand for Johnson that made absolutely no sense, and with nothing to go on, only to find out I was being followed by Scotland Yard. And now all you've told me about
]
ohnson, this Lundt person and the Secret Service. God! When I agreed to go to Malfajiri, I thought it would be good for my career.
If
only I'd been able to speak to Violet. None of this would have happened."

"Yeah, I heard that the Chief of SIS 1s your mentor. An Oxford connection, right?"

She nodded on his chest. "I still have no idea why this is happening to me. People have been killed. And Johnson. Is he really involved in all this?" Morgan squeezed her shoulder lightly. He stayed silent. "I know it's over for me in the Foreign Office, without doubt. Probably anywhere in Government. I knew that the moment I got on the plane to come out here. I've been played, used. I'm finished. I feel so stupid. And now there's you. How can this be? It's all so unexpected. You're here, lying beside m.e. I told you before, I feel like I've known you forever."

"Ari..."

She moved herself to rest her chin on his chest and looked at him, pressing her finger to his lips to keep him quiet. He obeyed. Her eyes were wet with tears, wrestling between tenderness, happiness and sadness. "I know what you're going to say, but I don't want you to say it," she said. "I know it's ridiculous, but it is how I feel. Our time together in Spain meant a lot to me, and I know it meant a lot to you, too. But I also know that this is impossible timing for us. There's too much going on in our lives for any of this to make sense. That's what you want to say, and I know that's right. So..." - she smiled that magnificent smile - "...I don't intend to make sense of any of it. I'm just going to let life takes its course
and leave it in the hands of destiny."

"Destiny?" he scoffed lightly, flicking her fringe from her eyes. "I didn't think you were the typ ."

'I'm afraid so, Mister. As far as you're concerned, anyway."

Morgan held her tight and guided her closer. Ari slid along the length of Morgan's body, feeling the muscle and tone of his broad frame, entwining her legs around his. Her lips were open and her breath was warm across his face. Morgan slid his hand through the fine tresses of her hair and pulled her to him, kissing her slowly at first, brushing her lips with his, responding instantly to the urgent swirl of her tongue. She groaned in his ear and pushed herself even closer against him. Morgan's hand slid to the small of her back and pressed into her body. He turned and Arena rolled in beside him, her mouth open, her face tilted up towards his.

Morgan's phone rang.

"Shit!" he said as he checked his watch, rushing to retrieve the phone from his trousers. Arena laughed as he untangled himself from crumpled sheets, stumbled naked from the bed, and plundered through his pockets. "Alex Morgan," he answered.

"Didyou still want to head downfor a drink and talk over thingsfor tomorrow?

I have news." It was Sutherland. "Or are you busy?"

"No, that would be great, Dave. Just give me a few minutes and I'll be right down." Morgan hung up, and looked back across to Arena, smiling at him from the bed, a sheet barely covering her tanned, supine body. "I have to go."

"Just as well. You do what you have to do and I'll see what's on the menu for dinner."

"Sounds perfect."

"Oh, and by the way, Mister." Arena's pointed finger held him in place. "Don't think your little subject change about why you're in INTERPOL worked either. I haven't finished with you yet."

"Yes, Ma'am," he said and threw a cushion at her.

*
*
*

Downstairs Morgan met Sutherland and they walked down Elizabeth Street, Sutherland hobbling, to a local pub called The Crown. The two pulled up a high table and Morgan bought the beers.

"Cornell had a call from Lundt, which I have the audio from," Sutherland began. "Cornell's pretty rattled by the prospect of actually having to meet Lundt face-to-face. He let slip the RV and timings. It's happening tomorrow afternoon across the road from our hotel at Hyde Park."

"No doubt why Johnson got Arena to book in there."

"You got it. Cornell's shaky now that things are coming to a head. He's got a sleepless night ahead. Cops will keep him under wraps. Bastard wouldn't last five minutes if he was really in this business."

"Any idea if Lundt is in Sydney yet?"

"Nope," replied Sutherland, annoyed. "But it's only a matter of hours before he is."

"Nothing in his life became him like leaving it," said Morgan.

"But you'll extract no atonement from Victor Lundt," replied Sutherland.

"What support can we expect from the locals if things ramp up without notice?"

"We've got pretty much the whole counter-terrorism crew m our corner, including a chopper on stand-by if we need one. The Australian Federal Police have agreed to stay at arm's length. They'll get involved at the frontiers if any of these bastards try to skip the country."

"We best get a meal into us and turn in, I have a feeling the next couple of days are going to be busy."

"Maybe," Sutherland suggested conspiratorially, "you should actually try to get some sleep."

While Hyde Park was playing host to a scorching Wednesday afternoon, an army of storm clouds advanced across Sydney. Its mighty battalions, marching to the fl.ash and roar of cumulonimbus artillery, claimed a bloodless victory over the sunshine in minutes, cloaking the harbour city in a menacing veil of grey.

The heatwave had broken.

Sitting amidst the oaks, poplars and kaffir plum trees at the southern end of the park, Alex Morgan braced for the onslaught. Great timing, he thought, disconsolately gazing up at the sky as the canopy of trees above ebbed and fl.owed in petty skirmishes with the advancing winds.

Morgan had found an empty bench from where he could keep a clear eye on the area and approaches surrounding the Anzac War Memorial. It was where they expected the rendezvous would occur.

Sydney's Hyde Park, named after the original in London, encompassed 16 hectares of gardens, paths and monuments, squared at the southern end, rounded at the northern, and spilt in two by Park Street; a prime central city enclave nestled along the eastern-most edge of the city centre.

Surrounded by courts, churches, schools, hospitals, hotels and high-rise office blocks, Hyde Park was once a haven for horse racing, prize fighting and cricket, and a rallying point for post-war victory celebrations, political assemblies, protests and festivals alike. A refuge for those seeking reprieve from their employ and home to the Archibald Fountain, Captain Cook's statue and, where Morgan now sat, the Anzac War Memorial.

As Morgan observed the scene, office workers taking a break upon the park's carpet of downy grass, as well as the usual swarm of tourists, were all bringing their rest or play to an end before the storm. A final kick of a football, a picnic blanket wrapped up, a book reluctantly closed; there was an affable urgency everywhere. To his left, a gaggle of young school children out on an excursion squealed in protest as tired teachers insisted it was time to go, shepherding them towards a waiting bus.

Morgan's bench was to the west of two divisions of poplar trees that marched north from the memorial along the :flanks of the Lake of Reflection. The poplars offered Morgan a concealed position with a view across
to
the area of the man-made lake Cornell had hurriedly scratched onto a tourist map in his room and left for the police to find. Morgan could smell the rain's breath in the air, its unmistakable freshness growing stronger by the minute. Come on, you bastards, he thought, crawl out from under your rocks and let's see you. As if on cue, there came an ominous roar of thunder in the distance and the slightest hint of rain on his cheek.