For how long? It seemed like hours. The sun was much higher in the clear sky, the humidity was moving from soft toward oppressive, and the constant river traffic kept the little launch bobbing at its tether. George Manville must have realized by now that he was much better off from here on doing things on his own. He’d even said that she’d be all right, better off than him, because she had Planetwatch to look out for her, and that he didn’t have any time to waste. So this would be the easiest way to get rid of her, wouldn’t it? He’d done the right thing up till now, he’d done wonderful things, rescuing her, saving her from being murdered, facing down those thugs. He even shot one of them, as startling to Kim as it was to the men who’d grabbed her. But now he was finished, she was safe, and he had his own life to worry about. So why would he come back?
So he isn’t coming back, she decided at last, and was depressed but not surprised at the idea. And now the question was, what should she do on her own? She had no money, no identification, knew nobody in Australia, and had probably been declared dead by the people of Planetwatch. She had a story no one would believe, and no other story to put in its place because it was true.
Should she try running the boat somewhere, farther inland? Should she leave the boat and walk to that railroad station and try to find a policeman to surrender to? That was probably best, though she couldn’t help a strong reluctance to leave the known world of this launch for the unknown world ashore.
Still, it was the thing to do, and she knew it, and she actually had one leg over the side of the boat when she looked up and saw him, coming down toward her from the bridge approach. Manville, solid and serious, arms loaded down with supplies, concentrating on his movements.
She felt such relief at the sight of him that she made a surprised cry, a “Hah!” that made him look up and call, “Wait. I’ll be right there.”
She stepped back aboard, and watched him come down. When she’d believed he wasn’t coming back, she’d done her best to hide from herself how deep was the disappointment she felt, but now she let it all come to the surface, how much she needed him right now, how frightened she was of being alone, in this place, at this time.
He clambered onto the boat, put down the bags he was carrying, and took a tube from his pocket. “Sunblock. Better put it on while we talk.”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” She took the tube and started spreading the white lotion on her forehead and nose and the back of her neck.
He said, “I’ve tried calling friends in San Francisco and in Houston, left messages for them both, I want to find out what’s going on with Curtis. But for now, what we should do is leave this boat right here, and take off.”
“Where?”
“The Gold Coast,” he told her. “Just south of the city, it’s the Australian version of Miami Beach, full of tourists. Very crowded. Nobody will find us there.” He lifted a shopping bag, held it out in her direction. “And you’d probably like a change of clothes,” he said.
2
Richard Curtis was supposed to be in Singapore right now. He was not supposed to be in this suite atop the Heritage, with its views out over the gaudy Botanic Gardens and Town Reach of the river, a fine hotel, a fine view, everything perfectly fine, except that Richard Curtis was not supposed to be here now, and the fact that it had become necessary was making him furious.
Morgan Pallifer was as furious as Curtis, and embarrassed and ashamed as well, which made him pace the sitting room like a wolf, punching his knuckles together, staring out past the terrace at the river as though magically he would see George Manville and the girl out there. He’d gone out last night with three men to do what should have been a simple task, getting rid of an already-injured girl and an engineer, and he’d come back with two men dead and the job not done. “He isn’t what you said he is,” he insisted, so angry and discomfited he was even daring to take out his feelings on Curtis.
All right. Curtis would permit that, just this once, for a little while. He understood and sympathized, up to a point. Pallifer had always been reliable and discreet, a good man for bad work, and Curtis could cut him a little slack. “Manville always used to be who I said he was,” he answered. “I don’t know what happened. Maybe he has some kind of Green Beret background I don’t know anything about.”
“I think your Chink captain told him we were coming,” Pallifer said.
“I don’t much care, one way or another,” Curtis said, and shrugged. “It’s over, and the only question is, what next.”
He had still been up north in Townsville when Pallifer made that second call last night, being so damn circumspect over the telephone that Curtis finally realized he was going to have to fly down to Brisbane and meet the man face to face this morning just to find out what in hell had gone wrong, even though he was supposed to fly to Singapore today, the three thousand miles over the land mass of Australia and the thousand islands of Indonesia to his new home at the tip of Malaysia. He had business there, other details of his construction deals around the world, but clearly it would have to wait.
Coming down here, he hadn’t believed it possible that both Manville and the girl could have escaped from Pallifer, both still be alive. He’d thought something had screwed up involving the crew of the Mallory, or maybe one of Pallifer’s team had turned out to be untrustworthy.
But, no. It was Manville, and he’d got clean away, and killed two of Pallifer’s people en passant.
Would Manville and the girl have come on to Brisbane? Yes. Manville wouldn’t want to keep her jouncing around on the water any longer than necessary, so they would certainly have come here, probably arriving an hour or two ago.
And then what? Do they go straight to the authorities? What do they say, and how much can they prove? And is there a way to head them off?
Possibly. Pallifer had been waiting here in the suite, pacing and raging, when Curtis had arrived. He’d told his story, in gruff monosyllables, and even before he was finished Curtis was making his first phone call, to Geneva. Nine hours earlier there, or fifteen hours later; in any case, around midnight. Bendix was not an early riser, Curtis knew. He left a message with Bendix’s secretary at the estate, then listened to the rest of Pallifer’s story, and now he was simply waiting.
Robert Bendix was a competitor of Curtis’s, in construction and finance. At their level, being competitors meant they were mostly partners, rarely fighting for an entire pie, usually content to share slices of the very large pies that came their way. Bendix was not one of the people he’d approached about the Kanowit Island deal, because Bendix was far too shrewd, far too skeptical; he’d have seen through Curtis’s Ponzi scheme in a minute. But there were other ways in which Robert Bendix could be of use to Curtis, just as, once or twice, Curtis had been of use to Bendix.
Now there was nothing to do but wait for Bendix to return the call, and in the meantime see if there was any way that Pallifer could still be useful, could make up for last night’s failure, God knows the man was willing. Glaring out the glass doors of the terrace, showing his teeth, Pallifer said, “They’re around here somewhere. The girl’s as weak as a kitten, they won’t travel a lot.”
“How would you find them?”
Pallifer said, “If they go to the law, the law’s gonna come to you, and that puts me on their tail. In a big city like this, automobile accidents happen all the time.”
“What if Manville doesn’t go to the law? He doesn’t have a very good hand to play with them right now, no proof, no witnesses. What if he’s smart enough to hide out for a while, until he and the girl can go somewhere else?”