Tropic of Death Page 18

  ‘How does that work?’

  ‘On the same principle as radar. Emitters fire waves of electromagnetic pulses across the sector, with particle-beam accelerators and laser pulses embedded in the system to give pinpoint accuracy. With me so far?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Image and acoustic data is transmitted in digital form via scanners to a quantum supercomputer executing more than one million trillion operations per second.’

  ‘Bit of a load.’

  ‘Too much for human brains. The complexities have to be monitored by a form of AI using new advances in fractal geometry to process the decision-making. It’s known as the Omniscient Demographic Tracker.’

  Rita frowned. ‘Omniscient? Sounds like someone’s idea of playing God.’

  ‘Ever studied English utilitarian Jeremy Bentham?’

  ‘I’m familiar with his Panopticon idea.’

  ‘Well, this is it gone digital - all-seeing, all-knowing. It makes total surveillance possible. You understand the implications?’

  ‘I can see all kinds of implications. But why am I here?’

  ‘To look at footage I’ve pulled from the system’s memory.’

  Paul turned back to the keyboard. ‘It’s from the night Rachel Macarthur was murdered.’

  Rita sat forward, her concentration intense as the significance of Paul’s words struck home. She fixed her eyes on the screen where a still image appeared. It showed a dark but clear figure of a woman. It was Rachel. She was at the top of the alleyway leading down to the Rough Diamond Club, the neon sign aglow at the bottom of the slope.

  ‘This is digitally captured and enhanced,’ explained Paul. ‘That’s why the focus is so sharp.’

  He tapped a key, triggering the image into motion.

  Rita watched as Rachel walked down the cobbled alley, leaving behind the glow of a streetlamp, past the shadowed shopfronts and boarded doorways. The view tracked along beside her as Rachel approached the point where she was attacked. Suddenly the picture dissolved in a blur of static. Nothing was visible. When it resolved itself there was just a perspective of the murder scene after the attack, the mutilated hump of Rachel’s body lying dimly visible in the gutter as rain began to fall.

  Paul tapped another key and the image froze.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Rita.

  ‘A cover-up,’ he said. ‘Okay, the system has teething problems, with odd things happening at the sub-atomic level. And there’s no way it’s ready to be deployed anywhere. But that sort of blip is something else entirely. It’s what I wanted to show you. Someone edited the memory by deliberately contaminating the data.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Only someone with level-seven access.’

  ‘How many people are we talking about?’

  ‘That’s just it, I don’t know.’ Paul pushed himself back from the keyboard. ‘There are nine directors on the Whitley Sands board, but not all of them have access.’

  ‘What about Captain Maddox?’

  ‘He’s certainly got it. So does the DG, Willis Baxter, and the CIA’s man, Rhett Molloy.’ Paul threw her a caustic look. ‘But a few off-base officials could also have access, like the man you were getting cosy with in the smoking room.’

  ‘Luker?’

  ‘He’s a possible candidate.’

  As she thought about it, Rita groaned.

  ‘You’ve just given me one huge headache,’ she said. ‘By any chance does the surveillance sector include Leith Ferry?’

  ‘It does. And I can answer your next question. Yes, there’s footage of Steinberg’s electrocution. Do you want to see it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you want to see your arrest by the base Gestapo?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I want to forget it. What I’d like to see is whoever paid a visit to Dr Steinberg’s house before he arrived home.’

  ‘Well, guess what. There’s a half-hour gap. That’s been edited too.’

  ‘Another cover-up?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Rita gave him a careful look. ‘Something you haven’t explained is where you stand in all this.’

  ‘I told you: I’m a target.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Now I know why your name’s familiar,’ said Rita. ‘You were inside the club the night of the murder. You were one of the customers questioned by police.’

  ‘Not just the police, Maddox too. He grilled me like an inquisitor, called me “decadent”, told me to pull my head in or face the consequences. At the time I didn’t get it. I thought he was concerned about bad publicity.’

  ‘What changed your mind?’

  ‘After Steinberg’s death I was interrogated again. Maddox accused me of “associating” with Steinberg. Even if I did, I couldn’t see how that was a security breach. All I did was chat with him in the smoking room. I hardly knew him. He worked up on level four in electromagnetics.’

  ‘Steinberg didn’t mention a report he was compiling?’

  ‘No. But I guessed there was more to his death than a simple accident. That’s when I retrieved the footage I’ve shown you. It’s also when I realised they’ve got me in their crosshairs. Then I just got pissed off.’ Paul gave her a sheepish look. ‘When I found out you were in the building, it was a godsend.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do?’

  ‘Just your job,’ he replied crisply. ‘Expose the real killers.’

  Rita was beginning to wonder about her next move when a woman’s voice interrupted her.

  ‘Taking time out, Paul?’

  The question jerked him forward and he quickly blanked the frozen image of Rachel’s body. He swivelled around to a bank of monitors where a woman’s face had appeared on a two-way link.

  She was gazing at him steadily. Rita recognised her immediately.

  It was the face of Audrey Zillman.

  ‘I got a bit distracted,’ Paul said quickly. ‘What do you want, Audrey?’

  ‘You need to run a check on the signal-processing software.’

  ‘I thought we had that sorted.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Paul pursed his lips. ‘Sometimes I feel like a glorified mechanic.’

  ‘Well there’s no need to pout,’ she retorted.

  Rita shifted in her chair and the movement caught Audrey’s eye.

  ‘And who’s the assistant mechanic?’ asked Audrey. ‘Not someone on staff.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Paul under his breath.

  Although Rita was on edge she was also intrigued by the chance encounter. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Marita Van Hassel. I’m a delegate at the security review.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ said Audrey. ‘You seem to have lost your way.’

  ‘She has level-five clearance and is here as my guest,’ put in Paul quickly. ‘A bit of familiarisation, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Being familiar has got you in trouble before.’

  Audrey sat back and folded her arms. Her face, in sharp focus on the high-resolution screen, radiated annoyance. Rita guessed that, like many males before him, Paul felt intimidated. Even across an electronic link Audrey had a formidable presence. Her cool grey eyes were full of confidence and irony, her broad forehead untroubled by doubt, and her lips were drawn together in a hard analytical line. Rita could see why Byron had fallen under her spell. Audrey had a magnetic quality about her.

  ‘You need to resume your work,’ she told Paul. ‘And my advice to you, Marita Van Hassel, is to get back to level one. Your session is about to resume.’

  With that parting shot, Audrey’s face vanished from the screen.

  ‘She’s got a point,’ agreed Rita. ‘I mustn’t be late for class. I’ve had detention here before and it’s not something I want to repeat.

  Maddox already sees me as a troublemaker.’

  ‘But it’s Maddox and his henchmen I need to talk to you about. You haven’t got the full story.’

 
‘I’ve got to go. What about this evening?’

  ‘Okay, my place,’ said Paul, writing on a business card. ‘Any time you can make it. I’ll expect you.’

  Rita glanced at the address on the card before pocketing it: 17

  The Ridgeway. ‘This address isn’t in Leith Ferry is it?’

  ‘God, no. It’s a villa up in the rainforest. Leith Ferry is nothing but a barracks. I wouldn’t be seen dead there.’

  Rita saw the unfortunate connotation of his words before Paul did.

  ‘Unlike Dr Steinberg,’ she said.

  Rita felt on edge as she rode the elevator back up to level one.

  When the doors opened she glanced around quickly, half expecting to find security guards closing in on her. But there were none on the prowl. Walking briskly along the corridor, she caught up with the last of the stragglers returning to the Situation Room.

  Once inside, the doors were sealed and she returned to her seat next to Bryce and Jarrett.

  As the chatter around the table subsided, Jarrett nudged her.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ she said, forcing a smile.

  The meeting resumed with another preamble from Willis Baxter before delegates began talking logistics, backup and response times.

  There were a lot of details to trawl through. With time dragging on, Rita’s frayed nerves became calmer but she now had a headache.

  Nothing being discussed had any relevance to her role in Whitley.

  It was equally apparent that another reason for locking her into the review was to sidetrack her investigation.

  Occasionally she looked at Luker but he seemed to be studiously ignoring her. Of all those on the base perhaps he was the one she should trust the least. She had no way of judging. In a looking-glass world you had to assume that no one was who or what he seemed. That went for Paul Giles as well. For all Rita knew, he was peddling a particular version of events and corrupting the data to suit his own ends. Or, worse, he could be laying a trap in league with Maddox. This, though, seemed unlikely. She was convinced Paul’s state of mind was genuine. Perhaps she’d learn more when she paid him a visit tonight. But that prospect also had its risks.

  At least she hadn’t been arrested. Apart from the encounter with Audrey, her security breach appeared to have gone undetected. On the other hand this could be a false positive. Audrey herself could be instrumental in all that was happening, her confrontation with Freddy pointing to a proactive role in striking at troublemakers outside the base. Each possibility upped the odds stacked against Rita, fuelling the tension headache tightening behind her temples.

  If nothing else, she was determined to skip tomorrow’s session of the review, even if she had to chuck a sickie. There was too much she had to get to grips with.

  High on the list was Audrey’s involvement. Rita needed to find out more. Her last exchange with Paul before she’d left his control room rang again in her ears. She’d asked him about the woman and the importance of her role in the Panopticon Project.

  ‘As system controller she’s pivotal,’ he’d answered. ‘That’s why they refer to the Zillman Hub. The technology’s her brainchild.’

  Rita then asked, ‘Where does she work?’

  Paul had replied, ‘Audrey virtually lives on level seven.’

  30

  The sun was dipping towards the horizon by the time the delegates finally surfaced from the bowels of the building and trudged towards their vehicles in the car park. ‘It’s worse than I thought,’ muttered Bryce as they got back into the police car.

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Jarrett, settling behind the wheel. ‘I need some beers after that.’

  ‘From now on,’ said Bryce, ‘we’ll be policing in the middle of a pitched battle.’

  ‘A battle between invisible forces,’ added Rita, ‘until we see the blood in the gutter.’

  Jarrett flicked the ignition. ‘A minimum of six beers should do it.’

  They drove through the checkpoint and out of the base.

  ‘And another thing,’ continued Bryce, ‘we’ll have to keep looking over our shoulders - both shoulders: one for terrorists, the other for federal backstabbers. This town is getting ugly.’

  ‘I’m hitting the sailing club tonight,’ was Jarrett’s solution.

  ‘Want to join me, Van Hassel?’

  ‘Thanks but I’ve got a raging headache. All I’ll be drinking is liquid Nurofen.’

  ‘I’ll bet you’re wishing you stayed put in Melbourne,’ suggested Bryce.

  ‘And miss your tourist delights?’

  ‘A tour of a dungeon in Whitley Sands is about as delightful as being buried alive,’ he retorted. ‘The same fate has just been handed to your profiling role, if you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘I had,’ said Rita. ‘Maddox made it perfectly clear what he expects now that I’m in his loop. ‘

  ‘And it’s worth remembering a loop can be a noose.’

  Jarrett parked at the police station.

  Rita got out, went to her car and drove to the Whitsunday Hotel.

  Once she was in her room, she kicked off her shoes, stripped and stood under the shower for a long time, just letting the water surge over her face and body, trying to decompress. It helped a bit. After towelling herself dry, she pulled on a T-shirt and shorts, threw the balcony doors open and swallowed some painkillers.

  Then she flopped on the bed.

  The solitude was some relief but not enough after what felt like a long day of brain-bashing. It reminded her she was effectively on her own, with no one at hand to rely on. After ordering a light meal from room service, she picked up her mobile, deciding she needed to hear a reassuring voice. Not Byron - he would only get worried and she’d end up reassuring him. Not Erin, either - she’d quiz her about the case. Instead she phoned her best friend and weekday flatmate, Lola Iglesias. Lola, with her Latin American flamboyance, would cheer her up.

  ‘Rita!’ her friend answered with a shriek. ‘Your timing’s unbelievable! Escaping to the tropics when it’s sub-zero down here. Minus fucking one!’

  Rita was already smiling. ‘There’s cold weather up here too.’

  ‘It’s got to be warmer than Melbourne. We’ve got snow in the suburbs! I’m freezing my tits off !’

  ‘Then you’d better warn shipping,’ laughed Rita. ‘ Icebergs from South America.’

  ‘Ha! Sailors beware! Just as well I’m heading north like you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve got an assignment in the Whitsundays. Celebrity wedding on Hamilton Island. The magazine’s bought the exclusive rights.

  I’ll be there on Saturday. And guess what? My admirer’s doing the official shoot.’

  ‘So who’s getting hitched?’

  ‘Cara Grayle, the model. She’s marrying Vic Barrano, the nightclub millionaire.’

  ‘Don’t you mean gangster?’

  ‘Yes, well, the magazine’s not going to mention that. It’s part of the deal. A glossy photo spread with no hint of anything unsavoury.

  Half the guests will be fashionistas and glitterati - reputations to protect. The other half will be mobsters and their molls, but who cares? All I have to do is write the captions without engaging my brain, which means I can get drunk on bubbly. French. Loads of it. Enough to swim in. More to the point, I’ll be in Queensland, so you can fly over and join me.’

  ‘Thanks, Lola. But somehow I doubt it.’

  ‘Oh, Rita! Don’t be a party pooper! It’s one of the hot events of the year and no one gets in without a pass and I’ve got spares.

  It’ll be a hell of a night. Barrano’s spent a fortune on it.’

  ‘He’s still a hood.’

  ‘Yes, but you’ll be off-duty. Think about it when the weekend rolls round. You can do that, at least.’

  ‘Okay, but no promises. Now, tell me your other news.’

  Most of Lola’s news centred on shopping, gossip and sex, and by the time they’d finished chatting, Rita�
�s spirits had brightened.

  Lola’s voice, and the painkillers kicking in, had eased her headache.

  She dragged over the road atlas and looked up the street where Paul Giles lived. Then she pulled a jacket over her T-shirt, put on her sneakers and headed back to her car. She wasn’t in the mood for another encounter with Paul but he had more to tell her and, whatever it was, she had to hear it.

  31

  Luker sat and listened, eyes attentive, hands folded in his lap, pretending to be sympathetic. Rhett Molloy was explaining how he felt a heavy burden of responsibility, representing the United States in his capacity as the international director of the Whitley Sands Defence Establishment.

  He’d been assigned a primary role, he emphasised, to observe, assess and facilitate developments in the system being built with Australian research technology, American finance and engineering, and the best scientists recruited from the global alliance. If the Panopticon Project was successful it would provide a radical new device to be deployed in the hunt against terrorists. Because it promised so much, and its security was paramount, Molloy had a secondary role: to protect the project against any threat. He was making it clear to Luker that it was this duty that weighed so heavily on him.

  Along with Molloy’s posting came a third-floor office at the base. It was housed in the administrative block constructed on top of the vast concrete chambers which honeycombed through seven underground levels. Molloy’s office had a smoked-glass bullet-proof window with a view across a belt of palms and gum trees to sand dunes along the perimeter fence and the blue of the Coral Sea beyond. It was a pleasant aspect, and one he appeared to contemplate as he shared some insights with Luker and the other man who sat across the desk from him, Molloy’s deputy, Kurt Demchak.

  ‘Though an onerous duty’s been placed on our shoulders,’ said Molloy, ‘and we can’t hesitate over what has to be done, we need to tread carefully. There are local imperatives to take into account to avoid repercussions. And I say this to you, Kurt, as a point of etiquette. You and I are a long way from US jurisdiction.’

  ‘You coulda fooled me,’ said Demchak.

  Molloy switched his gaze from the window. ‘Meaning?’