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
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
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