Dragons at the Party (26 page)

Hans Vanderberg came into his office in the State Office Block sweat-stained, smoke-begrimed and angry. He went into his washroom, washed his face and, still wearing his creased and sweaty shirt, came back and slumped down in his chair behind his desk. He had clean shirts in a drawer in his
washroom,
but if he was photographed when he left the office he knew the value of looking like a Premier who had just been sharing the worst with his voters. Most of those living in the fire-ravaged areas, poor buggers, were Labour voters.

“I’ve just been out assessing the damage. Oh, my word, it’s terrible.” Besides being Premier, he held the portfolios of Police and of Local Services. It was sometimes said that he secretly held all the other portfolios in the State Cabinet, since he usually announced every new project, no matter what the field, and all the respective ministers got was the blame when something went wrong. But he knew whom the voters would rather listen to. “Bloody millions of dollars. It’s a bugger of a fire that doesn’t blow anyone any good.”

“True,” said Ladbroke, wondering if he would have to translate that for the media before the day was out.

“What’s happening with the Timoris?” said The Dutchman, suddenly changing tack.

“They’re still safe,” said John Leeds. “But that fellow Seville is still loose.”

“That was bad, him kidnapping your bloke Malone. My word, yes.”

“Yes,” said Leeds, making a short word sound even shorter.

Vanderberg looked at Assistant Commissioner Zanuch. “You in charge now? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, right? What’re you going to do?”

“I’m using every available man, Mr. Premier. Unfortunately there are not that many available. They’re all on special duty for the celebrations. All the senior men, superintendents and above, are on that.”

“We’ve got to protect the public. They dunno how to look after themselves—they expect us to do it for them. If something goes wrong and someone gets hurt, they’re gunna complain we didn’t have enough crowd control. It’s the welfare state mentality.” Then he realized what he, a socialist Premier, had just said. “Did I say that?”

“No,” said Ladbroke.

Vanderberg swung his chair right round in a circle, getting only a quick glance out of the
window
at his back. He was edgy this morning; not nervous, but quickened by crisis. He would never be overwhelmed by events, but he could not remember such a conjunction of events as had happened this weekend.

“We’ve got to get this feller Seville out in the open. How’re we gunna do that?”

“If we bring him out in the open,” said Leeds, “some of the public may get hurt.”

“That would depend where he came out,” said Zanuch, risking his Commissioner’s wrath. He had never had a direct audience of the Premier and he wanted to impress. After all, when it came time for Leeds to retire, it would be the Premier, the Minister for Police, who would appoint his successor. “If we chose the right place—”

“Such as?” said Leeds and put paid to that suggestion. “We can’t risk any bizarre scheme, Hans. We have to play it safe.”

“Bizarre? I was just going to suggest something bizarre. I have a pension for the bizarre, haven’t I, Laddy?”

“You certainly have,” said Ladbroke with heartfelt conviction.

Encouraged (if he needed it), Vanderberg went on, “I’m going to invite the Timoris to the Bicentennial Ball tonight. That should bring Seville out into the open,”

“Yes,” said Zanuch. “That would give us ideal access to him. Tactics-wise—”

Leeds was aghast, but managed to look calm. “I couldn’t promise to protect the public. Some of this State’s most prominent citizens, including you and me, Hans, might get in the way of the shooting.”

“I wouldn’t be within a bull’s roar of them. If the voters saw me sitting with them, they’d never vote for me again. No, they can sit at a table near the PM. Or with him.”

“But you’d be their host, if you invited them. You’d at least have to greet them when they arrived. You’re the host anyway tonight—it’s not a Federal do.”

“John, the easiest thing in the world in politics is to shove your responsibilities on to someone else. What d’you think I’ve got a Deputy Premier for?”

Deputy Premiers were expendable, by a bullet or any other means. “I’m still against the idea,
Hans.
How do you think all the guests at the ball are going to enjoy themselves if they see a couple of dozen police officers stationed around the ballroom with their guns bulging out of their dinner jackets? We’ll need the Tactical Response squad and the SWOS men. They’ll be wearing flak jackets with bow ties.”

Even The Dutchman had to grin at the picture. “All right, all right, it’s too dangerous. But I was looking forward to it. I’ve got this General Paturi coming. Him and the Timoris together—that’d be quite something. Like putting a mongoose and a couple of rats in the one bag.” He dreamed for a moment, which even the most pragmatic of politicians sometimes do. Then he came back to the practical: “All right, no Timoris at the ball. So how do you catch this feller Seville?”

“Just dogged foot-slogging,” said Leeds, “and luck.”

“Just like politics,” said Zanuch and got a glare from Vanderberg that set his promotion back about three places.

The Premier then dismissed them just by saying, “Well, g’day,” and getting up and going into his washroom. Ladbroke escorted the two police officers out of the room, whispering apologies for his boss’s abruptness. Then he went back in and waited till Vanderberg came out of the washroom zipping up his fly.

“Do you think Gorbachev has trouble with his coppers like I have with mine?”

“Probably not,” said Ladbroke, but didn’t explain the reasons why he thought so. “What sort of release do you want me to put out on the bushfires?”

“Make it compassionate. Say we’ll appropriate so much money to a disaster fund, but don’t say any figures. I dunno how much these bloody celebrations are going to cost us.”

Ladbroke jotted down a note:
A substantial appropriation
. Political appropriations were like twenty-first birthday presents: most of them were forgotten after the thank-yous were said. “What about Paturi? Do we send a car for him?”

“We’d better. Put him at my table—find out if he’s bringing a woman with him. If he’s not, ring up Mrs.—” He named a well-known society matron who was equally well-known as a free-loader.

“
She’s already on someone else’s list.”

“All right, let him come on his own. How’s the dirt-digging going on the Timoris?”

“Inspector Malone had a session this morning with Tidey and Quirke, their banker and lawyer. And Timori’s private secretary, that Chinese guy, Sun Lee.”

Vanderberg grinned appreciatively. “How do you find out these things?”

Ladbroke grinned in reply. “I do favours for people, they do favours for me.”

“You oughta go into politics. How’d you like my job?”

“I have my eye on it. Say in about ten years’ time.”

Vanderberg nodded, knowing he was safe. “Get me that feller Malone. But tell him I don’t want his boss to know. I think it’s about time we started running this case ourselves. It’s too good to leave in the hands of the police.”

IV

“I was looking forward to dinner at Eliza’s,” said Claire, the connoisseur of expensive restaurants.

“I told you, darling,” said her mother, “Eliza’s was booked out. I mentioned your father’s name, but they weren’t impressed.”

“That’s because they didn’t see him on TV,” said Maureen, the ratings guide. “They should of been looking. We’d of got a special table. With a spotlight, prob’ly.”

“I couldn’t see you,” said Tom. “You were in that white car all the time.”

“The best place,” said Malone. “I don’t like the spotlight. Now what do you want? A cheeseburger or a Double Mac?”

“Both,” said Tom. “What’s for dessert?”

“Oh God,” said Claire, “just as well we didn’t take him to Eliza’s. He’s a real pig.”

“No, Daddy’s a pig,” said Maureen. “That’s what they call a policeman on TV.”

“With kids like you, who needs crims?” Then Malone looked at Lisa, cool and beautiful on a
night
when every other mother in this McDonald’s looked as if she had just come straight out of the kitchen. In these wrong circumstances, he suddenly longed to take her away somewhere for a second honeymoon. “I’m sorry, I wish we could have got into Eliza’s. Did you try anywhere else? Pegrums’? Prunier’s?”

She smiled, knowing his credit card would have gone limp if he had taken them all to Prunier’s. “Everywhere. They’re all booked out—even TV stars like you can’t get in. I doubt very much if Sonny Crockett could get a table. I don’t mind.” She looked around the big crowded restaurant. “I’ve always liked McDonald’s. It’s sort of—of—”

“Lower class,” said Claire, who had just been introduced by her mother to Jane Austen.

“Shut up and enjoy yourself,” said Malone; but he couldn’t blame his elder daughter for being disappointed. He had promised them all a superior evening; instead he had brought them to this McDonald’s where they ate every Thursday night after they had done the week’s grocery shopping. He hated letting them down and he knew it happened too often. He looked across at Lisa, and said, “I’ll take my holidays when this is over and you can plan what you like for every day.”

She smiled a policeman’s wife’s smile: that is, it was cynically sceptical, like a defence lawyer’s. “A promise?”

“A promise. Now what does everyone want?”

He went up to the counter, taking Maureen with him, and they came back with two loaded trays. He and Lisa had finished their hamburgers and were sucking on their thick shakes when Lisa put her hand across the table and took his.

“I love you,” she said.

“Erk!” said Tom, but the two girls looked on with shy pleasure.

“I don’t know why,” said Malone.

“Because you’re
decent
.”

“Yes,” said Claire. “That’s what you are. Decent. You’re a pain in the neck when you’re bad-tempered, but you’re nice and decent.”

“
What’s decent?” mumbled Tom, mouth full of ice-cream.

“Whatever Daddy is, is decent,” said Lisa. “And don’t any of you forget it.”

“What’s Mummy?” said Maureen, suddenly a defender of equal rights.

Malone looked at his wife. “Lovely. That’s all—lovely.”

She gave him a smile that turned his heart over. Then one of the McDonald’s boys, who knew them as regulars, came to the table. “Mr. Malone, you’re wanted on the phone.”

Lisa’s face clouded. “You didn’t tell me you’d given them this number.”

“I had to, darl. I’m on this Seville case round the clock, you know that.”

“Just as well we didn’t go to Eliza’s—I’d have been stuck with the bill.”

He had let them, and particularly her, down again. The food in his stomach suddenly seemed to turn sour. He got up and went behind the counter and picked up the phone. Clements was on the line.

“Sorry, Scobie. But Zanuch has called us all in. Get into your monkey suit—we’re all going to the Bicentennial Ball.”

“What the hell for?”

“Christ knows. General Paturi, this guy from Palucca, is going to be there with The Dutchman. Zanuch evidently thinks Seville might try to gate-crash, looking for the Timoris.”

“Are they going to be there?”

“Not as far as I know. But I’ve given up guessing on this case. Oh, another thing. Joe Nagler called. He’s got that information from ASIO. They’d been tapping Kirribilli House while the Timoris were there. There were two calls to Beirut. Joe has got copies of the tapes, but it’s all under the lap. Officially they don’t exist.”

“What time are we expected at the ball?”

“Nine o’clock. Oh, don’t bring Lisa. Zanuch said no women. We’re supposed to dance with each other.”

He laughed; but Malone couldn’t. He said miserably, “Okay, I’ll be there. But Lisa and the kids are going to boil me in oil.”

“
I know,” said Clements sympathetically. “It’s times like these when I’m glad I’m not married. The rest of the time I envy you.” He hung up abruptly, as if embarrassed by his sentiment.

Malone went back to their table and explained the situation.

“You’re going to the Bicentennial Ball without me?” said Lisa. “The biggest function in two hundred years and you’re taking Russ Clements, not me? Did we say he was decent, kids?”

“He’s not any more,” said Claire.

“Is it going to be on TV?” said Maureen.

“Can I have another ice-cream?” said Tom.

Malone looked mournfully across at Lisa. “I wish I could take you. But—”

“But what?”

He shook his head and Claire said, “He doesn’t want to tell you in front of the children. He’s going with another woman. A police lady, I expect.”

“Is that so?” said Lisa.

“I told you, I’m going with Russ Clements. He’s a good sort, but we don’t hold hands.”

Then Lisa, whose immediate disappointment had slowed her reflexes, caught on. She reached across and put her hand on his. “It can’t be helped. But be careful, darling. Be careful.”

“Is he decent again?” said Tom.

“Yes.”

Why do I love them all so much?
He knew, however, that it was a stupid question.

7

I

THE BICENTENNIAL
Ball was being held in the Exhibition Centre in the middle of the Darling Harbour complex, a monument of festival gardens, tourist markets and various halls that Hans Vanderberg had built for himself. His name was on various foundation stones, like that of a graffiti artist given his head. The Exhibition Centre was a huge hall, more than two football fields long, and was ideal for the occasion, the biggest social event ever held in the State. Several of the biggest hotels had lobbied for the function, but their ballrooms, like tight jeans, were not large enough.

The tickets were fifty dollars a head and they had been distributed evenly across the social scale; a small percentage had been set aside as free, so that the very bottom of the scale could be represented. Dress ranged from white tie and tails and ball-gowns to T-shirts and jeans; nobody was excluded because they couldn’t afford to dress up. Four bands had been engaged and the music ranged from hard rock through country and western to schmaltz waltz. The only time the music was common was when the four bands simultaneously played “Advance Australia Fair.” A forgetful cornetist in the old-time band then went into the first bars of “God Save the Queen,” but found he was playing solo and only those at the Returned Servicemen’s table were standing to attention. He gurgled away into silence. Four thousand dinki-di Aussies weren’t going to waste their night celebrating their ties to Britain, especially those natives with names like Castellari, Stefanopoulos, Pilsudski, Jagonovich and Van Trung.