Peter Temple: Black Tide

Run. Run for what? Never get my office door open in time, two locks to open.

Running, hearing the vehicle behind me, look back, headlights fifty-sixty metres away.

Running. Run for McCoy’s door, could be open.

Look back. Never get to McCoy’s door.

Head, shoulder and arm leaning out of the vehicle, out of the window behind the driver. Something in the hand.

Oh Jesus, I’m dead.

McCoy’s rubbish skip. Get behind the skip.

Flat sound, not loud, whine of lead off the tarmac in front of me.

Oh Christ.

The skip. Nearly there.

I could hear the engine roaring. Close.

I dived for the steel box, bounced on the cobblestones, landed on my elbow, my right hip, pain shooting through my whole body.

Huge bang next to my head. Bullet hit the skip.

Crawl, crawl behind the skip.

Behind it.

The sound of McCoy at work on his tree trunk. He wouldn’t hear anything above his own din.

The four-wheel-drive went into reverse. Back ten metres. Brake. See the brakelights red as blood.

Trying to get a clear shot at me. Legs not good enough.

Forward. Savage left turn. Brake. Reverse lights.

As the vehicle backed onto the pavement, I crawled around to the other side of the bin, the narrow side. Breathless, little involuntary fear noises in my throat.

Scream of the engine, right turn, forward, looking for me.

I tried to crawl back. My right leg seemed to be paralysed.

Crawl. Drag yourself.

Too late. Too late.

I looked up into the face of a man in the back seat of the four-wheel-drive. A fat face, bald head, mouth open. He looked like a white seal. A happy white seal with a pistol, silencer on the end.

He steadied both forearms on the windowsill, sighted down the barrel, not in a hurry. On my chest. Getting it right.

I felt nothing. Fear gone. Not even despair. Just a thought about my daughter. I didn’t write often enough. Didn’t tell her I loved her often enough.

To die in the rain, in the gutter, next to a rubbish skip. Not right.

Here it comes. I closed my eyes.

McCoy’s front door crashed open, bucket of light thrown over me. Roaring chainsaw noise.

McCoy. In the doorway. Plastic face shield pushed back on the huge head. Chainsaw in his right hand, running, roaring chainsaw, blade pointed at the ground.

The gunman raised his pistol instinctively, fired at McCoy without aiming. A chunk of wood came away from the doorpost centimetres from McCoy’s head.

‘FUUUCK!!!’

Bellow of McCoy outrage. All in one fluid movement, he brought his left arm over, picked up the roaring chainsaw in both hands, weightless. Raised it to head height.

Threw the running chainsaw.

Threw it like a dart.

Threw it at the man who had fired at him.

Across the space. The heavy cutting machine, carbide-steel cutting teeth on a chain, flying across the space.

Into the man’s face.

The man falling back. Going back with the running chainsaw.

The scream. One terrible piercing blood-red expulsion of sound.

The vehicle shot forward, tyres howling, swung into Carrigan’s Lane, went over the kerb, right front fender hit the brick wall, back came around, grinding along the wall, fountain of red and white sparks. Down the lane, engine screaming in first gear.

Alive.

In the rain, in the gutter, next to a rubbish skip.

Alive.

McCoy and I looked at each other.

‘Shit,’ he said, rubbing his beard stubble. ‘Fucking Stihl chainsaw. Next to new. Four hundred bucks.’

I swallowed. Strange taste in the mouth. Like iodine. Who knows what iodine tastes like?

‘Maybe he’ll bring it back,’ I said and I looked at my right hand. It was twitching, little jerks. It was like looking at someone else’s hand. I got up, grasped my right hand with my left.

McCoy eyed me. ‘One of your old clients,’ he said. ‘Passing by, thought he’d say hello.’

I was limping away, feeling my arm. Over my shoulder, I said, ‘Some bloke bought one of your paintings. Seriously disturbed to do that, looking at it makes him much worse.’

In the Lotus, slick with sweat on a winter’s night, I took the long and illogical way back to Cam’s friend’s apartment. I was in Richmond, breathing almost normal, pulse slowing, when Eric the Geek, Wootton’s tall, stooped, unsocialised computer genius, came into my mind. He lived in Richmond, off Lennox Street. I’d given him a lift once, not a word out of him for the whole trip.

I parked beside the Richmond Oval and found his number in my notebook. He answered on the third ring. I didn’t identify myself.

‘That hard disk, find anything?’

Silence.

‘You there?’

‘Yup.’

‘Find anything?’

‘Yup.’

‘Much?’

‘Nope. Wiped. But.’

‘But?’

‘Didn’t clean it properly. Trawled a few bits and pieces.’

‘Got a transcript?’

‘Yup.’

I told him where to bring it. He arrived in five minutes, a man in an anorak, collar up, beanie topping a long head, driving an ancient Renault. Why do all old Renaults have one door a different colour?

Eric didn’t say anything, kept his long head slightly averted, pushed an envelope at me, retreated.

To his back heading for the car, I said, ‘Thank you, Eric, send me the bill.’

In the white penthouse, sitting in a Barcelona chair, the city lights lying at my feet, I drank my host’s Glenfiddich and read Simone’s report.

Jack, I followed up the reference to Secure International (that’s Major-General Gordon Ibell) in the European databases. I found a mention in a Swedish source of a company called Eagle Exprexxo they say is linked with Secure and was involved in transporting arms to Unita, the American-supported side in Angola led by Jonas Savimbi.

I tried Eagle Exprexxo and found a mention in the International Herald Tribune of a case still before the French courts involving hand-held missiles found in a semi after a freeway accident. The semi owner said he was hired by a company called Redan. Redan said it got the job from a freight agency. The agency said it understood the hirer to be Eagle Exprexxo of Tampa, Florida, but had nothing on paper.

In 1983, an American magazine also mentions Secure International and in rather vague terms talks about a secret organisation of ex-CIA and American military people called The Connection.

The Connection.

Miles Crewe-Dixon’s friend in Sydney knew about The Connection. It was tied up with Arcaro Transport and Eagle Exprexxo. He told Miles to walk back very, very carefully. ‘Don’t fuck with these people,’ he said. ‘It’s the good old boys from Manila.’

Something was beginning to dawn, a thread of light, on the faraway horizon. I read on.

It says the group has been involved in arms-for-drugs deals and money-laundering and has strong links with the CIA and other intelligence services and with the Shah of Iran and President Marcos and Pakistani and Hong Kong druglords and money movers.

That’s it for the moment. There are some leads to follow from these mentions. I await your instructions.

I took a chance. Too late not to take chances. I punched Simone’s number on Cam’s mobile. A clean mobile. What did that mean?

Her voice.

‘Simone, Jack, the American magazine in your report. What’s it called?’

‘Mother Jones. Strange name.’

‘Who wrote the piece? Remember?’

‘Hold on.’

She was gone for a long time it seemed.

‘There? Someone called Stuart Wardle.’

She spelled the name.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

Stuart Wardle.

I sipped some Glenfiddich, swilled it around the cavities, looked at the lights, the electric world seen from above, thousands of pinpricks of light, minute smears of colour. Thoughts came unbidden. Dave shooting the man called Tony, my torch on Tony, making it easy, a man with smooth hair and a nice smile. Dave turning the gun on Gary and shooting him. Three times, loud noises, nothing much to see, a man stumbling backwards and sagging at the knees, his mouth opening.