Dragons at the Party (10 page)

He had been standing below the steps leading to Door 3 less than five minutes when he felt the tap on his elbow. “Mr. Gideon?”

The Aboriginal boy could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen; he was light-skinned and he reminded Seville of the Arab boys he had seen in the guerrilla training camps in the Bekaa valley in Lebanon. He looked just as serious and apprehensive as those boys.

“Yes, I’m Gideon. Am I supposed to follow you?” The boy looked surprised and Seville smiled. “I’ve done this before. Many times.”

They pushed their way through the crowd, going against the stream. I may be in dire straits myself before the night is out, thought Seville wrily; but danger was an old ambience and he never felt uncomfortable in it. He followed the boy out into the busy street and they turned left. Five minutes’ more
walking
brought them under what Seville took to be a traffic fly-over. There the boy, without a word, suddenly darted away.

Seville moved into the shadow of a pylon, stood waiting. He flexed the calf of his right leg, felt the knife in its sheath strapped there. If Dallas Pinjarri brought trouble, he would be ready for it.

Above his head he could hear the swish of tyres and the occasional rumble of a heavy truck. Through the pylons he could see the bright lights of the Darling Harbour complex, a new development since he had last been in Sydney. All cities, he decided, were beginning to look alike with their tourist projects; you travelled thousands of miles to look at buildings and display temples just like those you had left behind. In a thousand years, digging amongst the ruins, archaeologists would wonder in which country they were working.

Pinjarri appeared as silently and swiftly as the Aboriginal boy had disappeared: maybe it is an Aboriginal thing, Seville thought. He came through the bands of light and shadow; Seville thought he saw other shadows within the shadows, but he could not be sure. He waited, wondering if he would have to use the knife.

“Mr. Gideon?

“Hello, Dallas. Have you brought some friends with you, back there behind those pylons?”

Pinjarri peered at him in the shadows, “I don’t recognize—”

“I had another name when I was here two years ago.” He could not remember whether he had used his own name; his memory must be going. “I also wasn’t blond or Swiss—”

Pinjarri peered even closer. Then: “Shit, is it really you? Miguel?”

“I might be,” said Seville, smiling. “But call me Michel. I told you, I’m Swiss.”

“Sure, sure, whatever you say.” Pinjarri was a good-looking man in his late twenties with black curly hair and a complexion only slightly darker than an Arab’s: a white man had stayed some time, maybe only for a night, in the family bed. He had a broken nose, a relic of a year as a professional boxer, and the sad dark eyes of a born loser. Yet he could still smile and it was a pleasant one. “Sometimes I wish
I
could be something else. I’m a half-caste, half-educated, half fucking everything.”

Pinjarri
hadn’t been self-pitying when Seville had last been here; things must be going badly for the black militant movement. “You wouldn’t feel at home with the Swiss. No one ever does. Perhaps that’s a better defence than an army.” Then he said, “I need a gun.”

Pinjarri made a clucking noise. “I always thought you’d have everything on hand. You said we were the fucking amateurs when you were here last time—” So he hadn’t forgotten. “You told us what a lot of shits we were—”

Seville was fluent in six languages and foul-mouthed in none of them; the obscenities grated on his ear. He was unconvinced that violent language achieved anything, except perhaps to help the speaker’s own macho image. In the mouths of women it struck him as just ugly comedy. He was a prude in many ways, except in the matter of killing.

“I need a gun,” he repeated quietly. “As soon as possible.”

Pinjarri stopped his abuse, looked at him curiously. “You gunna kill someone? Or ain’t I supposed to ask? Okay, forget I asked. What sorta gun? A Schmeisser, something like that? They’re not easy to get—”

Seville doubted if Pinjarri had ever seen a Schmeisser: he was just airing his knowledge of the catalogues. “I want a high-powered rifle, one with a telescopic sight. A Springfield or a Winchester or a Garand. What do your kangaroo-shooters use? I’ve seen them on television in those animal welfare propaganda films.” He could never understand why people should be so concerned with the slaughter of animals. “I need something reliable and I need it at once.”

“I been „roo-shooting meself. I used a Sako .270, it’s a Finnish job—”

“I know it.”

“How soon do you want it?”

“Tomorrow at noon?”

“Shit, I dunno . . . It’ll cost you.”

“How much?” He knew the price of a Sako: he had seen one in the window of one of the gun shops he had inspected: $800.

Pinjarri
hesitated, then said almost pugnaciously, “Five thousand bucks.”

“That’s a lot for a gun. I don’t want to buy a battery of them.”

“Look, Mick, you know it ain’t just for the gun. Our movement’s in a fucking bad way—we need money any way we can make it . . .”

Seville smiled to himself. He thought of the money that was available to the PLO and the IRA. He had been in Beirut in 1982 when the Israelis had moved up into Lebanon; Rah Zaid, who knew of such things, had told him the PLO in four days had moved $400 million out of Lebanese banks into Switzerland. He felt tempted to bargain with Pinjarri, but the joke was too sour.

“Five thousand,” he agreed. “But only if you deliver it by tomorrow noon and not a word to anyone whom it’s intended for. Otherwise . . .”

“Otherwise what?” Pinjarri grinned. “You wouldn’t kill me, mate. I’m not worth anything.”

“So you wouldn’t be missed.”

The grin faded. “Okay, how will I get in touch with you?”

“I’ll phone you at eleven. Dismantle the gun, bring it in some sort of bag. And a box of ammunition.”

“I’m not a fucking nong,” said Pinjarri, trying to sound like a professional. But what had he ever done? Seville asked himself the question and imagined Pinjarri asking it, too. A few demonstrations, the blowing up of a power-line pylon erected on an Aboriginal sacred site . . . It was difficult to be militant in a country that ignored you. “You’ll have it, no worries, mate.”

“I trust you, Dallas.” He had never trusted anyone, but it was always easy to say it.

“Sure, sure.” Then: “You’re not here to have a crack at Timori, are you? That wasn’t you bumped off his sidekick last night, was it?”

Seville looked at him. “You know better than to ask that.”

It was a threat more than a statement and Pinjarri recognized it. “Sure, sure, forget it, forget I said it. But why didn’t they ask us to do it, it’s our territory? Okay, eleven o’clock tomorrow morning I’ll hear from you. Hooroo.”

And
he was gone: Seville wondered if
hooroo
was an Aboriginal farewell. Australians at times spoke a language all their own. Once more he longed to be back home, speaking Spanish, being
himself
. Whoever that had been: he had forgotten.

He went back to the hotel in Rozelle, pushed through the drinkers standing on the pavement outside, went up the back stairs on the storm of rock music being blasted out of the main bar. The building seemed to shake with it: the world was being white-anted by decibels. He closed and locked the door of his bedroom and the noise came up at him through the floor.

He turned on the small television set that the pub-owner, being obliging, had lent him and watched a movie about some Australian soldiers in the Boer War in South Africa. History was repeating itself there, except that blacks were being killed instead of whites, and he wondered why the movie’s producers should have considered the subject worth while.

Then the movie was interrupted by a newsbreak: “Premier Vanderberg has just announced that the prime suspect in the killing of President Timori’s aide last night is Miguel Seville, international terrorist . . .”

He sat and stared at the small screen. The rock music came up through the floorboards and the tatty carpet like a rapid-fire barrage. He began to wonder how many people he would have to kill before the job was done and he could go home.

4

I

THE BICENTENNIAL
celebrations were in full swing, building up to the climax of Australia Day only two days away. Flags flew everywhere; the city threatened to be airborne under the pull of fluttering bunting. Citizens walked around with bemused smiles, as if wondering how they had arrived at this anniversary: history is not comfortable if one has to wear it personally. The Lucky Country over the past year had begun to question its luck.

“Phil Norval must be questioning his luck,” said Malone. “Being landed with Timori just as he’s about to have his biggest shindig.”

“What about
our
luck?” said Kenthurst. “We’ve got to move him out of here by tonight. The PM wants Kirribilli House back for the big day on Tuesday,”

“Where are you taking him?” said Joe Nagler.

“We haven’t been told yet. We suggested we take him back up to Richmond, to the RAAF base—security would be much tighter there. But Madame vetoed that. I gather she wants to be somewhere around the harbour, so they can see all the celebrations.”

“What’s she got to celebrate?”

“Twenty-two million bucks, for one thing,” said Malone. “What are Customs doing about all that loot?”

“What can they do?” said Kenthurst. The Timoris didn’t declare it, sure. But none of it’s a prohibited import—they’ll have to pay sales tax on the gold and gems, but the currency’s okay. The rumour is that Customs want to grab the lot, but Canberra, or anyway Phil Norval, won’t be too happy about that.”

“
He should pick his friends more carefully,” said Malone.

He and Russ Clements had come across to Kirribilli again this morning and were going over the murdered Miss Kiddle’s flat, hoping they might find something that had been missed on the night of the murder. The Forensic men had been here all day yesterday, searching every square foot of the building, and had come up with nothing. Malone, however, had decided to have a last look for himself. He and Clements had been in the flat only five minutes when they had been joined by Kenthurst and Nagler.

Russ Clements came through from the main bedroom. “Nothing, Scobie. He was a real pro, except for that print on the dunny button.”

“And leaving his gun behind,” said Malone. “That means if he wants another crack at our friends across the road he’s got to get another gun.”

“I checked all the gun shops yesterday morning—I’ve got a list of everyone who bought a rifle or a hand-piece.” Clements might look like an amiable, slow-thinking slob, but he was usually one or two steps ahead of those who under-estimated him. Malone glanced at Kenthurst, but the latter’s face showed no expression. “His best bet would be to buy one from some crim. But how would he know any?”

“I don’t think he’d try them,” said Malone. “Terrorists like him don’t have much time for the ordinary crim—every game has its snobs. No, I think he’d go looking for some mob of militants.”

When Lisa had been kidnapped in New York several years ago, Malone had had plenty of opportunity to study the terrorist mind. Since then he had kept up the study, certain that one day there would be terrorism in Australia just as there was in other countries. He knew that Joe Nagler agreed with him.

“We never had anything definite on him, but there was a rumour Seville was out here a couple of years ago.” Nagler looked diffident, an expression that didn’t sit well on him; Special Branch were not supposed to deal in rumours. They might inspect them, but never spread them. “That crowd who call themselves January Twenty-Six were supposed to have invited him. We talked to them, that guy Dallas Pinjarri and a couple of others, but we got nothing out of them. You know what a darky’s like when he
d
oesn’t want to tell you anything.”

Nagler had his colour prejudice; Malone knew some whites who could be just as inscrutable as any darky. “Is Pinjarri still in town? He comes and goes. The last time I heard of him he was up in the bush, Moree or somewhere, doing a bit of stirring.”

“I could find out—”

“No, leave it.” Malone didn’t want Homicide pushed aside; this was still their case, two murder jobs. “Russ, how’d you go on the hotel check?”

“A blank so far. I’ve had the boys go through the guest list of every hotel and motel in the city and up as far as Chatswood. The trouble is, I can’t draw on the local stations. Every cop in Sydney seems to be on special duty for the bloody celebrations.” He had his own sense of priority, he would rather solve a murder than salute a flag. “Every hotel and motel is full, been booked out for months. He’d have had trouble getting in anywhere.”

“Unless he’s staying with some friends,” said Nagler. “Pinjarri or someone like that.”

“Maybe,” said Malone. “But we’ll keep checking the pubs. Try the ones that still keep two or three rooms open—they’ve got to do that under the licensing laws.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t suggest that,” said Clements. “That means every bloody pub within a radius of fifty miles.”

Malone looked at Nagler. “Do you have trouble with the bludgers in Special Branch, sergeants who never want to work?”

“I’m a sergeant,” said Nagler. “I bludge all the time.”

They all grinned, feeding on their sense of humour to keep them going. Malone led them down out of the building and across the road to Kirribilli House. The demonstrators were still behind the barriers further up the street, but they were quiet this morning; perhaps, thought Malone cynically, some of them had just come from church where they’d been praying for a better shot next time from the assassin. Police cars were parked on both sides of the street, but there were no Commonwealth cars. That meant Canberra had decided to take Sunday morning off, to leave the Timoris to their own devices. Of
which,
he thought, there would be many.

He stopped to be interviewed by two TV newsreel reporters and half a dozen radio and press reporters. He had nothing to report, he said, except that progress was being made.