She nodded. Gary joined in the argument on January’s side and they went at it vigorously until the meal arrived.
‘They’re not the enemy,’ Bolton snapped. He felt for a cigarette and stopped when he saw how January was looking at him.
Gary looked at his tray. ‘Maybe they are,’ he said. ‘Look at the food.’
It was all pink or off-white with the consistency of freshly mixed polyfilla. I prodded at it, ate a cube of something called ‘cheese food’ but basically left it alone. January was wound up; he talked as he ate and finished the food apparently without tasting it. Trudi nodded encouragingly and managed to get several cups of coffee into him by the sheer force of her agreement with every word he said.
The leg room in the business class seats was adequate; the air wasn’t yet too stale and the drone of the engines was pleasantly muted. As he digested the ‘steak food’ and ‘ice cream food’, Peter January slept.
‘This is looking tricky,’ Gary said. ‘What’s wrong with him? He doesn’t usually throw it down like that.’
I looked at Trudi. ‘Does Gary know about Karen?’
She shook her head.
‘Time he did,’ I said. ‘I’m betting that’s the complication our master’s wrestling with.’
Trudi filled Gary in quickly. He covered his face with his hands when he heard the name. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said. ‘Does Frank Hogbin know?’
‘Nobody knows,’ Trudi said. ‘Except us sitting here, and Mrs Weiner, of course.’
‘And where’s her head now?’ Gary said.
On the block, I thought, but Trudi had learned 80s-speak. ‘That’s what’s bugging Peter,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t been able to reach her for a couple of days. He’s scared she might be doing something foolish.’
Gary took a sip of cold coffee and made a face. ‘What d’you think, Cliff?’
‘I’ve got the same problem with Helen.’
Gary looked at me, blinking rapidly. ‘Don’t worry,’ Trudi said. She patted my hand. ‘Cliff’s got jet lag-already.’
We went through customs at Honolulu. This time I made sure January cleared what they insisted on calling my ‘weapon’ first. I didn’t want any trigger-happy American cop thinking he’d got himself a live target at last. Back on the plane January fell into an argument with Martin. Gary Wilcox stuck close to them and seemed to be fuelling the debate from time to time.
‘You need a phrase, sir,’ Martin insisted. ‘A catchcry.’
‘A slogan,’ Gary said.
January loosened his collar. He had his jacket off and waistcoat unbuttoned. He looked a little dishevelled but nothing that couldn’t be fixed quickly. ‘What is this?’ he said. ‘An advertising campaign? Are we selling beer here?’
Gary smiled. ‘You’re falling into the style already, Peter.’
‘Shut up! Martin, have you got the breakdown of the media networks? I want to know where I can say what.’
‘Yes, sir. And the regional analysis. You’ll be travelling along the east coast a bit, I gather. Now, in Maryland…’
‘Agnew country,’ Gary said.
‘Jesus, don’t remind me. What’s that Baltimore paper that’s okay?’
‘What’s going on?’ I whispered to Trudi. ‘Gary’s getting up his nose.’
‘That’s right. The idea is to get Peter angry and charged up. Maybe he’ll stay off the grog.’
‘He might break Gary’s nose too, or Martin’s glasses. Are we going to have to nursemaid him like this all the time?’
She shrugged. ‘He’s hoping for a telegram from Karen in Washington. What about you?’
‘I’m just a boy from Maroubra. I’ll send Helen a postcard.’
‘I’ll help you draft it, if you like.’
‘No, thanks. She might smell your perfume. That reminds me, maybe we should’ve given some of those original letters to the cops.’
‘Why?’
‘They could do a microscopic analysis, get blood types from fingernail scrapings and so on.’
‘Was any crime ever solved by that stuff?’
I grinned. ‘I never heard of one. Still, something might turn up. We’ll do it when we get back.’
‘I’ll make a note. Are you enjoying yourself so far?’
‘It’s okay. No one’s shot at me. I’ll be ready for a decent feed. Where’re we staying in Washington?’
She consulted a notebook. ‘The Lincoln.’
‘Good.’
‘D’you know it?’
‘No, but at least it’s not the Watergate.’
‘I think the Watergate’s for the rich.’
‘It certainly made a lot of people rich, Watergate.’
‘Mm.’ She looked across the laps and knees at January who was arguing fiercely with Martin. Bolton, presumably, was off working on his emphysema. A steward came down the aisle and handed Trudi a note. She unfolded the paper and read quickly.
‘Great,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Press in LA.’
‘Talk English, Trude.’
She smiled as she handed the note along to Peter. ‘Some members of the American media would like to talk to the Minister at Los Angeles International Airport.’
‘Commie Aussie polly gives Reds head,’ I said.
‘Jesus, Cliff. It won’t be that bad.’
We looked at January. He smoothed down his hair, checked his watch and did up some of the buttons on his waistcoat. Martin held out a paper to him and he brushed it aside. ‘Later,’ he said.
‘Will he be out of his depth, d’you think?’ Trudi whispered.
I watched January work his tongue around his teeth and flex his neck muscles, pulling in the incipient double chin. ‘How tall is he?’
‘Five nine,’ Trudi said.
I smiled. ‘He’s barely five eight but I don’t think the depth will worry him too much.’
12
The American reporters, who had seen everything, hadn’t ever seen anything like Peter January. As we assembled in the media lounge, with January in his three piece suit and his advisers and minders around him, they must have thought they were in for another quick question-and-answer session which their editors just might give 30 seconds or a half column to.
The young man who opened was bored before he started. He wore a striped shirt and bow tie; his hair was clipped to his skull and he treated his cameraman like the Great White Hunter lording it over the Bantu. When he thought the technician had done his best he signalled to January that he was ready. The other reporters deferred to him.
‘Mr January, do you regard the United States as a friend or foe to Australia?’
January smiled. ‘In my country it’s usual for reporters to identify themselves.’
‘David Harvard, West American TV.’
‘What was the lead story in your channel’s morning news program, Mr Harvard?’
Harvard fumbled the ball. He looked confused and didn’t know what instructions to give his patient, curious Bantu. ‘I…ah, I’m not sure, I…’
‘How can you be a serious reporter if you don’t know how your channel is handling news? Next. Could I have someone from the print media, please?’
‘Mr January, Timothy Squires, LA Banner, first question-are you aware that the Soviet Union is ringing Australia with military bases under the guise of fishing facilities?’ Squires was a squat, heavily-jowled man with an aggressive style of delivery. He gave the impression of having elbowed his way to the front and of resentment at having to identify himself as January had requested. He had an unlit cigarette in the hand that held the pad as if he was seeking just one line from January before he could rush off to smoke and file his copy. ‘Second question-what…’
January was sitting only a few feet back from Squires; he leaned forward and flicked a cigarette lighter. Squires was nonplussed; he put the cigarette in his mouth and leaned towards the light. January killed the flame before he got the tip of the cigarette to it. ‘Sorry, I forgot. No smoking in here. What’s the population of Australia, Mr Squires?’
The cigarette fell from the reporter’s mouth. Some of his colleagues were tittering. ‘Around, er…shit, five million I guess…’