Sensitive New Age Spy (25 page)

‘And why would you think I’d cooperate?’ Clare said.

‘Well, for a start, because we’ve got your boyfriend captive in a warehouse in San Diego – here he is with a gun at his head.’ He held up a 3G phone and showed her a video picture. ‘Excellent image quality, I think you’ll agree?’

Clare gasped, and so did I. ‘You’ve got a boyfriend?’ This was a turn-up for the books.

‘Sorry, Alby. I was going to tell you at breakfast, but we were interrupted.’

‘So what was that between us?’

‘Well, like you said, I’d been at sea a long time.’

‘So you just wanted me for my body?’

‘Geez,’ Ed muttered, ‘she must have been at sea a bloody long time.’

Clare looked down at the phone again. ‘How do I know that’s real?’

‘You don’t,’ Pergo said. ‘But are you willing to gamble on your boyfriend’s life?’

Clare looked at me and I could see the uncertainty in her eyes.

‘Let me throw in a sweetener for you,’ Pergo said. ‘If I feel you’re not displaying a high enough level of enthusiasm for the task, I’ll bring in your toy boy here.’ He nodded in my direction. ‘Every time I catch you deviating from the manual, I’ll take my bolt-cutters and snip off one of his toes right in front of you.’

From the sounds coming from Clare’s cell, she was
vomiting in the toilet. I have to admit I wasn’t feeling too flash myself.

Ed pushed me to one side and glared out into the corridor. ‘Listen, arsehole,’ he yelled, ‘if you lay a finger on one of Alby’s toes I’ll rip your bloody arms off.’

If things weren’t so serious I might have found it funny.

Pergo ignored Ed’s outburst. ‘My bolt-cutters and your little piggies,’ he went on calmly, ‘will make for a very persuasive, if rather messy, inducement. And if she won’t do it for you, Murdoch, then perhaps we could get young Cristobel here to play.’

Cristobel whimpered, and Pergo opened Clare’s cell door and pushed her roughly inside.

‘So,’ I said, ‘you’ve got the CIA and the Australian government convinced you’re on the case and close to finding the missing nukes, and all the time you’ve got them in the back of your ute selling them to the highest bidder.’

‘Precisely,’ Pergo said. ‘But when you put it that way, Murdoch, you make it sound like a bad thing. I prefer to think of it as an exercise in prudent retirement planning.’

‘And the kid in the carpark?’

‘Collateral damage, I’m afraid. I meant to tell him I’d cancelled the assignment, but with all the excitement it slipped my mind. When I realised my mistake I had to rectify it.’

That pretty much summed Pergo up. Max’s death was merely a procedural necessity.

‘And it was you who put that charge under the seat of my rental car?’ I said.

Pergo laughed. ‘Not me personally. Let’s just say the Minister has his way of warning you off the case and I have mine.’

Warnings don’t come much sterner than half a kilo of plastique going off in your back pocket.

‘But Mr Pergo…’ Cristobel’s voice was wavering. ‘What about our Antarctic sanctuary? I thought you cared about the whales?’

‘Cristobel,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid all Mr Pergo cares about is Mr Pergo’s bank balance.’

‘Now, that’s not fair, Murdoch. I do share Miss Gaarg’s passion for our finned friends. In fact, when I was a child I had an aquarium. One by one all my fish died. It was fascinating. If fish are hungry enough, eventually they wind up eating each other. It truly was survival of the fittest in that tank.’ He smiled at me, and it wasn’t a nice smile.

‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘of all the sea’s creatures, my favourites are the sharks.’

Somehow that didn’t come as a big surprise.

‘There are some magnificent Great Whites in these waters, Murdoch, sometimes up to eight metres and more. We often spot them from the helicopters. Beautiful to watch, and extremely efficient killing machines.’ He smiled that smile again.

‘You know, Murdoch, a shark like that would take less
than five minutes to finish off a person your size, and it wouldn’t leave a trace.’

Great. Only Pergo could come up with a scenario that made an encounter between my toes and a set of bolt-cutters sound like the lesser of two evils.

We spent a long, uncomfortable night, made even less comfortable by the fact that dinner was bread and water. We didn’t get any cutlery, but when Ed found a discarded plastic knife under his bunk he suggested we tunnel our way out. Since Adamek Island was basically one big rock, that didn’t seem too feasible, and even though I’m a big fan of
The Great Escape
we had limited time at our disposal.

From our cell window, I could see lights and activity in the main workshop, where the boffins and engineers were pulling an all-nighter to get the cruise missile ready for the early-morning launch. It was a warm night, the cell was stuffy, and sleeping was impossible, so Ed and I rehearsed a little performance for when the goons walked in with the bolt-cutters. Pergo hadn’t bothered to post an overnight guard on the cellblock, and given the solidness of the barred windows and the steel doors, I could see why.

They took Clare away just after six in the morning, and when no one came for me and my toes I figured she must have cooperated. Around seven, one of Pergo’s men brought her back to her cell. She was bruised and bleeding from a split lip.

She looked at me and shook her head. ‘What choice did I have?’

‘Looks like you live to tango another day, Alby,’ Ed muttered quietly. He was on his bunk under a blanket.

While it was nice to still have all ten toes, it wasn’t what I’d expected from Clare. She was career Navy – Annapolis. Why had she caved in so easily?

When the guard had locked Clare in her cell I whistled to him. ‘Hey, tough guy, my mate’s in bad shape. Reckon you can get someone to take a look at him?’

The guard peered warily through the small opening just as Ed let out a low moan.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ the guard asked.

‘Beats me. He just started feeling crook in the night. I think he’s got a fever.’

Under instructions, I put my hands on my head and stood facing the wall while the guard unlocked the door and edged in.

‘Crikey, maybe he got bitten by that snake!’ I yelled, pointing to the corner of the cell. I don’t like using the same ruse twice, but we had limited options. As the guard swung the muzzle of his Walther submachine gun away from me, I kicked him in the nuts and then biffed him with the cell door while he was on his knees. Not an elegant tactic, but it worked.

Ed sat up on his bunk. ‘Jeez, mate, that was more Three Stooges than 007. I’m a bit disappointed.’

‘Wait till you see my Abbott and Costello,’ I said as I frisked the guard. ‘That always lays ’em in the aisles.’

We tied the guard’s hands with his belt and put him on my bunk, tucked up under the blanket. I couldn’t find a phone on him, or any more ammo for the Walther, so I was stuck with what was in the magazine. The Walther is a good close-in weapon, but it only holds thirty rounds.

I left Ed locked in the cell with the unconscious guard for cover and started to work my way towards the launch site. I planned to get as close as I could, wait till they rolled the missile out, then try to put all my bullets into the engine. My plan hit a slight snag before I’d gone twenty paces, when someone else with a Walther tried to put all their bullets into me.

I ducked behind the nearest rocky outcrop and squeezed off a three-round burst in the direction of the shooter, who had his own rock to hide behind. Only twenty-seven shots left and a lot of open ground to cover, which wasn’t the way I’d planned it.

I popped my head up for a quick look and got a lot of encouragement to keep it down. Two or three shooters had me spotted now, and another three-round burst from me brought about a hundred in return. Bullets, ricochets and rock splinters were suddenly flying in all directions, and I hunkered down in a cleft in the rock.

Around twenty-four shots left. Between bursts of fire I risked another peek, and really didn’t like what I saw. The
steel doors to the workshop building slid silently open and half a dozen of Artemesia’s armed heavies spread out to form a protective circle. A bunch of nervous-looking, white-coated technicians pushed the missile down the railway tracks to the launching ramp. Sheehan was in the group, with one of the guards holding a gun on him. His face was puffy and bruised and I wondered if he’d had a discussion with Pergo about nukes.

The warhead compartment on the missile was shut, and it looked like everything was in place for the Japanese to get their lunchtime surprise. The boffins made some last-minute adjustments and then withdrew into the workshop, followed by the guards. The steel doors were closed to protect the workers from the red-hot backwash of the solid-fuel booster rocket that would get the missile airborne.

At exactly 7.25, according to my watch, a loud klaxon blast echoed across the island. The five-minute warning for the launch. By now I calculated I had fifteen rounds left in the magazine. At this range I had no chance of hitting the engine on the missile, but if I left the shelter of the rock there was no way the goons could miss me. It was all about to hit the fan in a very big way and there was bugger all I could do about it.

Cristobel’s prediction of retribution from on high came to pass with a vengeance, and not a moment too soon.
It actually started at ground level, with short bursts of submachine gun fire from commandos in camouflage battledress. The main attack force came from three Blackhawks that raced in at high speed and low level, hovering just long enough and low enough for black-clad SAS teams to rappel quickly down ropes slung from each door of the chopper’s main cabins.

The twenty-four SAS guys split into teams of four as soon as they hit the ground, spreading out and racing towards the different buildings, with the Blackhawks screaming away immediately the ropes were clear. The air- and ground-assault teams quickly linked up and suddenly doors were being kicked open, stun grenades tossed in, and soldiers were charging straight into the smoke and confusion that followed the blasts.

Two teams of four broke away from the rest and sprinted towards the jail, disappearing round a corner. I heard the crunch of boots on the gravel path, followed by about ten seconds of silence, then an almighty bang. There was smoke and yelling from inside the jail, then two smaller bangs and more yelling.
‘Get out, get out, get out.’

Then troopers were half dragging, half throwing Ed, Cristobel and Clare from the smoke-filled building. They stumbled, dazed and shaken by the explosions, and fell on their knees, coughing and wheezing and gasping for air.

I popped my head up a little higher from behind the rock, and when nobody tried to shoot it off I figured things were
safe. Leaving the Walther behind and coming out with my hands up seemed the smart thing to do. I was still wearing the camouflage uniform of Artemesia’s security goons, and I didn’t want anyone getting the wrong impression. Especially not someone packing an MP5.

With my hands in the air I joined the group outside the jail. Suddenly my feet went out from under me and my face was in the gravel. I started to get up but a boot in the small of my back suggested I reconsider the move. I was quickly and efficiently frisked by someone who knew exactly what they were doing and then I was hauled back onto my feet.

Three SAS men kept us covered while a fourth gestured to the other team, sending them off in the direction of the main workshop. I could see a line of about twenty white-coated men on their knees with their hands clasped on top of their heads. While others kept watch, a pair of SAS troopers worked their way methodically down the line, searching each of the prisoners and then securing their hands with plastic ties. One of the men was pulled out of the line and marched over to our little group.

‘White isn’t really your colour, Pergo,’ I said when he joined us. Trust him to grab a dustcoat and try to look like one of the boffins. He started to take his hands off the top of his head but when one of the SAS bods raised his submachine gun he changed his mind. He didn’t change his attitude, though.

‘My name is Chapman F. Pergo and I’m Special
Assistant to the Minister for Defence,’ he announced. ‘I have full authority to take charge of this operation and I order you to release me immediately.’

The SAS men looked at the soldier who was covering Pergo. The trooper gave a negative shake of the head. There was something familiar about the slight, black-clad figure.

Ed climbed to his feet and addressed Pergo’s guard. ‘I was wondering if I might have a brief word with Mr Pergo there?’

The SAS trooper nodded. Pergo lowered his hands as Ed walked up.

‘It’s about my bloody boat, and those bolt-cutters you mentioned,’ Ed said, and then his right shoulder dropped a bit and Pergo began raising his right hand. But it was a feint and Ed’s left shot out. There was a solid crack as his fist connected with Pergo’s chin, and the bastard went down like Sonny Liston to Ali in ’65.

Ed started walking in circles, shaking his hand and cursing quietly to himself. Hopefully the damage to his knuckles would be less than that to Pergo’s head. Pergo sat up slowly after a minute and rubbed his jaw.

‘I guess that would make it eight losses,’ I said to him.

He started to get to his feet, but two SAS troopers forced him back on his knees. Besides their submachine guns, they had pistols strapped to their thighs, and the holster on the trooper in front of Pergo held a black, nine-millimetre, Teflon-coated ASP.

‘I’ll have your balls for this, you bastards!’ Pergo hissed at the soldiers.

‘Not mine, you won’t,’ the trooper with the ASP said, pulling off her helmet and balaclava.

‘Hello, Jules,’ I said. ‘You know, you look really good in basic black. And those stun grenades are a nice touch. Very elegant.’

Julie hooked the compact MP5K to the front of her combat harness and scratched her face. ‘Those damn wool balaclavas are really itchy,’ she said.

Her submachine gun was customised with a nifty ACE skeleton folding stock and an Aimpoint comp sight. It was a very nice-looking little package with a lot of punch close-up. Not unlike Julie herself.