Mulholland stood staring at the screen flanked by the Director on one side, immaculately attired in a three piece suit and clean shaven despite the fact it was hours off dawn. In direct contrast Coffey, head of Intelligence, was dishevelled with a day old growth covering his chin and cheeks. But he was as sharp, if not sharper than the Director as they moved and counter moved the data around on the screen as though it were a game of chess. Outside of Mulholland’s office, the entire unit was assembling and every available agent had been called in.
Mulholland glanced up to the closed-circuit TV feed up in the right hand corner, updating every second from each camera on sewerage outlets feeding from The Dead Zone. He’d assigned one agent to sit and watch all screens feeding in from the sewerage system. Nothing was going to slip past him, other than the occasional over sized rat scurrying through the disembodied green of the night vision.
“We can’t discount this is a ruse,” the Director said, knowing it would be him who would need to make the phone call to the Mayor for authorisation to move to Code Black. “I still don’t understand how Pullen managed to delete everything. There must be some way to retrieve what was lost.”
“We head hunted Pullen because he was the best. He was more than an eavesdropper – he created software and systems which gave us spying potential beyond anything we’d previously had.”
“Then you are facing the difficult truth that you actively recruited a saboteur into your ranks,” said Mulholland, enjoying the moment.
“There was nothing at any point to indicate Pullen was anything other than a loyal employer.” His voice remained steady.
“Well perhaps he was once upon a time. His wife is scheduled for birth in two weeks time, is she not?”
“And she has never missed an appointment with the hospital or has given any indication they were collectively planning to break the law. In his time Pullen helped in the arrest more than twenty midwives. I have never had reason to doubt his loyalty.”
“Until now.”
“But it makes no sense.” Coffey shook his head and thrust his hands deep into the pocket of his stained sweat pants.
“He set the systems in place, like slowly but surely wiring in a bomb to take out a building. Bit by bit,” said Mulholland.
“We will be able to retrieve some of our database, if not all, it will just take time.”
“Time we don’t have,” said the Director.
The Director pulled across a string of photos, Pullen, Midwife #2, Jamieson, Booth, Kravin and Colbert and a barely discernable picture of a black Mustang.
“How does this all fit together?”
This installment incorporate’s Tina’s challenge (a difficult truth).
I got an invite along to The Griffith Review’s Christmas Party at Avid Reader in West End tonight by my wonderful friend and mentor (funny how that word seems to be creeping in quite a lot when I write of Edwina!) Edwina Shaw had been invited to read her story The Raft (an extract from her forthcoming novel Thrill Seekers.)
It was just the sort of outting I needed to blow of the Fourth Fiction Merde/Head Fuck which has infected the past twenty-four hours. Not to be out-done though… you’ll notice I managed to get ticket C14 (the 14th being the date Constantine will give his interview with Cyrus Webb). The upshot, got to drink free wine, meet Edwina’s family, hear her do a reading AND I won a free calendar (made me think of you Ben – it is a 3CR calendar from Melbourne!) Loved carrying a bare-breasted Ned Kelly up through the main street of West End and up Melbourne Street to the bus stop.
The lights went out and the world plunged back into darkness again. The car accelerated at such a rate, Sylvie was thrown into her backpack caught between her and the seat. She struggled to untangle herself and then reached for the seat belt.
“You won’t need a seat belt.” The driver was a male and in the confined space of the car his vice sounded different to what it had out in the open. Sylvie’s eyes, traumatised by the bright light couldn’t get a proper fix on the features of the driver. He was just there. Driving like the devil incarnate.
“I’m not sure I trust your driving.”
“At this stage, I don’t think you have much of a choice.”
Despite the speed and the lack of vision, the car seemed to glide over the rough, mostly barren landscape. Sylvie braced herself, waiting to be jolted or jarred but there was nothing. It was like being in a plane, in an artificially pressured space, speeding effortlessly above everything.
She sneezed, once and then twice and remembered the proliferation of ragweed seeds imbedded in her hoodie. It would be impolite to sit in the stranger’s car picking them off and dropping them on the floor. Plus Sylvie wasn’t convinced that at any moment the faceless driver wouldn’t jam on the brakes sending her through the windscreen. The sneezing reminded her though of what he had said as he’d somehow dragged her into the car.
“What did you mean about the ragweed?”
“Round here they believe ragweed gives desperate confidence in desperate situations.”
Sylvie ran her hand over the tiny prickle-like seeds.
“Where I come from they’re a noxious weed.”
“Well Dorothy, this ‘aint Kansas any more.”
“You’ve got that right –I don’t think a bucket of water would take care of those… things.” Sylvie shuddered, feeling as though something had walked across her grave. “I was told I’d meet the escort in The Dead Zone. I expected you’d be waiting.”
“I was busy.”
“So was I.”
“I noticed.”
“Do you think you can be on time next time?”
“Maybe I wasn’t late. Maybe you were early.”
“I’m always one time.”
“You got some cheek.”
“You can talk. How much finer could you have cut it.”
“If my memory serves me correctly it was me who saved you out there.”
“I was holding my own. Me and the dog.”
Sylvie turned to pat the dog how sat in the middle of the back seat.
“Yeah well, I’m not dead. So thanks. I was always curious if the warnings on those cannisters were for real.”
He turned to her for the first time, as the moon came out from behind the clouds and Sylvie saw for the first time that he wasn’t just good looking, he was devastatingly handsome. The sort of man she believed only existed in the wildest of her fantasties.
“And just for your information, I’m not planning on making this a regular gig.”
This installment incorporates Paul Servini’s challenge (a devastatingly beautiful man)
