I was bad-tempered after the phone disaster which was probably why Trudi moved back. Things were cool between us. I sat with the phone wondering whether I should call the Broadway Agricultural Company. Instead, I called Frank Parker. I felt the need for some non-political company and conversation and I could rely on Frank and Hilde to give it to me. Frank often needed the same sort of thing and Hilde, who was researching some jawbone speciality too ghastly to mention, was always good for some academic dental stories.
Inspector Parker was interstate on business. I put the phone down and it rang immediately. I considered flicking the recording machine on but I wasn’t that far gone.
‘Hardy.’
‘Cliff, Trudi.’
There was need in her voice. I love to be needed, I thought, almost as much as I need to be loved. Speak up, can’t hear you.’
‘I can’t yell, I’m in the office. There’s been another letter. Peter’s under big pressure all around. I don’t want to worry him with it.’
‘Don’t. Stay there. I’ll come in.’
The office was humming; there was energy in everybody’s movements and they were practically jostling each other to get at the phones and filing cabinets. Trudi had a phone to her ear when I walked in. She said something quick into it and slammed it down. I looked enquiringly at her and she grimaced.
‘My ex,’ she said. ‘Let’s go somewhere.’ She grabbed a manilla folder from her desk, mouthed ‘Out’ to Gary who nodded, and we headed for the door. On the street I had to scuttle to keep pace with her.
‘Why so busy?’
‘Getting stuff ready for Peter.’
‘I mean you, now?’
‘Oh, that man, he drives me crazy.’
‘Peter or your ex?’
‘All men.’
I couldn’t think of anything very useful to say to that. We went to the Bar Napoli and I ordered the coffee. Trudi passed the folder across to me. Inside was a cheap envelope with ‘PETER January’ printed on it in scratchy, half dry ballpoint. There was a square of paper, like butcher’s wrapping paper but smaller. Using the same pen and mixing up the cases someone had written: ‘I wiLL KiLL ALL THe WOMen’. There were photocopies of both. Trudi sipped her coffee and looked agitated.
‘He’ll need to be a better shot,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Must’ve driven him crazy up there on the viaduct, getting all lined up, night scope and all, and you bobbing and weaving.’
‘Christ, do you actually think this is funny?’
I drank some of the good, strong coffee. ‘No, but I don’t see what harm a joke can do, as long as it doesn’t stop us being careful.’
‘What does it mean-all the women?’
‘God knows. This is the same paper as the other one, isn’t it? The “touch her and I kill you” one?’
‘I think so. Yes.’
‘It’s probably the sniper which doesn’t mean that it’s the bomber. Not necessarily.’
‘So, what d’you think?’
I finished my coffee. ‘I think there’s someone around, close by, who hates Peter January. Maybe for personal reasons, maybe for political things. That doesn’t help much.’
‘Why not?’
I pointed out the door to the busy street. ‘This is one of the closest packed parts of Sydney. We’ve got every kind of ethnic group here, we’ve got people who’ve been let out of psychiatric hospitals, we’ve got trendies, we’ve got Fascists. Have you ever taken a good walk around this place? I have. There’s temples for sects I’ve never heard of. People have got illuminated shrines in their front gardens. I’ll bet there’s an illegal immigrant with a history of mental disturbance and a Family Court problem within a hundred feet of us right now.’
She burst out laughing. ‘God, you make it sound dangerous.’
‘Maybe it is, unless you stick real close to your work, your pub and your house.’
‘I’m sorry about Helen and the phone call. Have you explained?’
‘I can’t reach her. What about you and your ex?’
She shrugged. ‘He’s ex as ex can be. He’s crazy, but…’ Our eyes fell on the note. ‘He’s never threatened to kill me.’
‘You know what I think?’ I said.
‘What?’
‘I think it’s a bloody good thing we’re all going to Washington the day after tomorrow.’
BOOK TWO
11
As Minister assisting the Minister for Defence, Peter January was low on the totem pole, which meant that he escaped a lot of the trappings-such as hordes of security men, departmental advisers and other nose wipers. When we assembled at Sydney’s International Terminal we numbered but five-January, Trudi, me, Gary, whose other name was Wilcox, and two guys named Martin and Bolton. Martin was from a PR section of the Department of Defence and Bolton was seconded from the Strategic Analysis Unit of the Australian National University. They were experts in politics and they used words like ‘hemispheric’ and even bio-tropic’.
Trudi distributed the tickets. ‘Business class. Any of you smoke?’
‘Yes,’ Bolton said. He was a long lean number with straight fair hair. He had several pens in the top pocket of his jacket and nicotine-stained fingers.
‘Not today you don’t,’ January said. ‘I’ll want to talk to you on the way and I don’t want to get my head full of shit before I get there. There’ll be enough of that later. Let’s go.’
The metal detector screamed as I stepped through the frame. I was wearing the. 38 in an underarm harness and I had a spare ammunition clip in a pocket. It made the attendant’s day. He suddenly stood taller and sucked his stomach in. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ll have to search you.’
I held my jacket open so he could see the gun but the other people standing around couldn’t. ‘The thing works,’ I said. ‘It really works.’
‘Stop clowning, Hardy,’ January snapped. He and Trudi presented the attendant with papers, which meant that his day hadn’t been made after all.
‘What was all that about?’ Martin asked. He was a small, intense man with a mop of wiry hair and big, violet-tinted glasses. He kept abreast of me by scampering down the corridor from the waiting lounge pumping his elbows like a competition walker.
‘Politics,’ I said.
It was a Trans Pacific Airlines flight stopping at Honolulu, Los Angeles and New York. The movie was Crocodile Dundee, which I’d seen and didn’t want to see again. I’d brought along Flashman at the Charge which I’d read but wanted to re-read and John Ehrlichman’s Washington Behind Closed Doors which I hadn’t and probably wouldn’t. Trudi and January talked and worked on papers; January also drank. Martin and Bolton read thick official reports so fresh the ink came off on their fingers. Bolton slipped out of his seat from time to time to go somewhere and smoke.
I read, listened to the music and thought. I’d imagined that the next overseas trip for me would have been with Helen. We had similar ideas about Paris and Rome; now I didn’t even know where she was, much less what ideas she had. I hadn’t phoned the farm, I hadn’t done anything except resolve to send a postcard from New York. That’d rock her. Maybe I could go on to Paris when January had finished in New York. Maybe Helen could join me there. Human beings weren’t meant to travel thousands of miles in a few hours-it stimulates the imagination too much and leaves reality too far behind.
January left Trudi and sat next to Bolton. They were arguing loudly within seconds.
‘You can’t say that,’ Bolton yelped. ‘You’ll offend mother major interest group with every word if you say that.’
‘Good!’ January slammed his fist on his knee. Good!’
‘They’d retaliate!’ Bolton’s voice went up in aguish. ‘They’d undersell us in wheat, wool, meat…’
January laughed. ‘They’re doing that now.’ His ice had got a little loose, the way I’d seen it before when he was drunk at my house. Trudi shot him a concerned look which I caught. I looked at my watch.
‘Food soon,’ I mouthed.