Tropic of Death Page 30

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘You didn’t mention me to your fellow cops, by any chance?’

  asked Stonefish.

  ‘No. But keep your wits about you, and don’t go into Whitley again.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Panopticon.’

  ‘I’ve seen the diagrams,’ said Stonefish. ‘State of the art and all that. But if I keep a low profile -‘

  ‘I’ve seen it in action,’ Rita interrupted. ‘It’s no ordinary system.

  Think about it - satellites, scanners, electromagnetic emitters. It’s total surveillance.’

  ‘You mean it can look inside buildings?’

  ‘Every room in every building,’ she answered. ‘It has the capacity to watch and listen to anyone, anywhere within the sector.’

  ‘No wonder the spooks love it. Must be their wet dream come true. But there’s always the human element to screw up.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure. It’s run by a form of machine intelligence, and the system controller happens to be a leading expert in the field - Audrey Zillman.’

  ‘That’s the bitch who fried my decks, and all my bank codes in the process,’ put in Freddy. ‘And I didn’t notice anything human about her.’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling she’s the smartest person at the base,’ said Rita.

  ‘And the most dangerous?’ asked Stonefish.

  ‘I don’t know. But I can tell you this, from personal experience: if she wants to find you, she can.’ Rita gave him a probing look.

  ‘The Rheingold disk. How do you know it’s secure?’

  ‘I passed it on to someone I trust.’

  ‘You gave it to Ice?’ exclaimed Freddy. ‘You dipstick!’

  Stonefish nodded irritably. ‘Yes, Freddy. Thanks, Freddy.’

  ‘Are you talking about Marilyn Eisler?’ asked Rita.

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I asked her to put it in my private drop-box.’

  ‘In Whitley?’

  ‘No. Rockhampton.’

  ‘Who retrieves it?’

  ‘A courier service - but not the usual sort. Totally discreet, very expensive, known only to me. I’ve just given instructions on where to deliver it.’

  ‘And you won’t tell me who you’re sending it to?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you realise how much danger you’ve put that woman in?’ said Rita. ‘If she downloads from the disk she could end up dead.’

  ‘But Billy’s got nothing against her.’

  ‘You know very well it’s not just Bowers we’re dealing with. His involvement doesn’t explain everything. I’m convinced someone at the base has had a hand in every murder - and the disk is the link. Where do I find this woman?’

  ‘She’s got an apartment at the marina,’ said Freddy. ‘The penthouse.’

  ‘Ice won’t download from it,’ insisted Stonefish.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I told her not to open it and she promised.’

  ‘Great,’ said Rita. ‘Just like Pandora.’

  The beam of the headlights wobbled over the surface of the water as Brother Ignatius carefully guided the old kombi along the partially submerged causeway. When it reached shore he changed gears with a clunk, the engine growling as the van lumbered up the incline through low dunes and beach grass. There was little traffic as they turned onto the coast road, Rita glancing around without spotting any sign of Billy’s men.

  ‘You look worried,’ said Ignatius.

  She gave a grunt. ‘A feature of the job.’

  ‘I admire your fortitude.’

  ‘Is that what you call it?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ he answered seriously. ‘After your remark about facing the ungodly I prayed to Saint Michael the Archangel, the patron saint of police. I asked him to protect you.’

  Rita smiled. ‘Thank you. That’s got to be the best call for backup I’ve ever had.’

  ‘And I can see how your sense of humour serves a purpose.’

  ‘Cops tend to need it, graveyard humour. It’s a defence mechanism - helps you cope.’

  He nodded. ‘I realise I’ve got the soft option in the battle against evil. I survey the world, the flesh and the Devil from the luxury of seclusion, while you’re down in the trenches, locked in hand-to-hand combat.’

  ‘I don’t believe anyone has a soft option. According to the Blessed Prophet, Mohammed, the great Holy War is within oneself.

  Psychologically, I have no argument with that.’

  Ignatius gave a quiet laugh, changing gears and pumping the accelerator to get the van up to a decent speed. They were on a broad sweep of open road with a nature reserve stretching along the foreshore and cane fields inland. The stars dusted the sky with a spectral light.

  ‘You even quote Islam at me,’ he said, amused. ‘I don’t think anyone has teased me the way you do.’

  ‘A woman’s prerogative.’

  ‘Not a subject I’m familiar with.’

  ‘You pay a high price for your seclusion,’ observed Rita. ‘On the other hand, you don’t have women’s angst inflicted on you.’

  ‘Or women’s charms.’

  ‘But you’ve been tempted?’

  ‘I’m a monk, not a saint.’ He glanced at her slyly. ‘And while we’re back on the topic of forbidden fruit, I’m impressed you can quote Genesis at me, chapter and verse.’

  ‘Even though my interpretation is profane.’

  ‘You obviously don’t take the story of Eden literally.’

  ‘Do you?’

  Ignatius flinched as he answered, ‘I can read it symbolically.’

  ‘I think that’s the way it’s supposed to be read.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The Garden of Eden is a psychological place,’ she replied.

  ‘You’ll have to explain that.’

  ‘Human beings - symbolised by Adam and Eve - are either inside the Garden or outside it,’ said Rita. ‘So the story’s telling us that our psyche has two fundamental states, the natural and the alienated.’

  ‘But you’re talking about the preface to the entire Bible,’

  objected Ignatius. ‘Surely you admit there’s a spiritual dimension to the fate of Adam and Eve.’

  ‘ Our fate, all humanity,’ she corrected him. ‘We’re all Adam and Eve. And yes, there’s a spiritual equivalent to what I’m saying.

  Nature equals oneness with God. Alienation equals otherness.’

  ‘So let’s see,’ he responded. ‘As well as ruling out any divine, factual or geographic basis, you deny Eden has a moral message?’

  ‘Funny you should mention it. Geographically there’s a villa called Eden up on The Ridgeway. It’s one of the reasons I’ve been thinking about it.’

  ‘You evaded the question,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Okay. The expulsion from Eden is a metaphor: biologically, socially, intellectually we have evolved away from the natural towards the alienated.’

  ‘And physically?’

  ‘We still inhabit the Garden. As a species we never left it because we’re part of nature - although in our minds we’re separated from it.’

  ‘And the role of God the Father?’

  ‘Symbolic,’ she said firmly. ‘I can’t accept any theological concept of God.’

  ‘I can see where you’re heading,’ he said. ‘For separation from the Creator, in the traditional meaning, read separation from nature in yours. Different, if pagan.’

  ‘And naturally our great yearning is to return, to regain that sense of paradise - or oneness with nature - that’s been lost.’

  ‘That’s where the role of religion comes in?’

  ‘Or anything else that works for you,’ she said. ‘Psychologically you’ve made it back to the Garden when you feel at one with your here and now.’

  ‘So now it’s my turn to ask: do you?’

  ‘No, I’m as screwed up as anyone else - that gnawing sense of estrangement in
my head.’ She sighed. ‘Though for a moment there, on your island, looking at the ocean, the rainforest, the sunset

  - I saw Eden in all its beauty. Pity the feeling doesn’t last.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re familiar with the writings of Joseph Campbell,’

  said Ignatius.

  ‘Of course - perhaps the greatest authority on mythic symbolism.’

  ‘What you just described - your experience on the island -

  reminds me of his phrase for what we’re all seeking - the rapture of being alive. ‘

  ‘You’re in good form tonight,’ said Rita. ‘Years ago, while struggling with what someone recently called my “religious ambivalence” , I actually crafted some blank verse on a similar theme. I gave it the title “Ekstasis” . ‘

  ‘Ah, from the Greek, meaning to stand outside oneself. Do you still remember it? Can you recite it?’

  ‘Let’s see … yes,’ she said, recalling the words. ‘A bit of un-poetic and agnostic soul-searching:

  ‘Out of space and time:

  This planet, here and now,

  A life-giving sphere

  Spinning through the alien void;

  A habitat of natural beauty

  To be experienced with wonder

  Between the cataclysms

  Of past and future;

  A moment of rapture

  In the face of annihilation;

  And beyond all endings,

  A premonition of peace

  As the mind perceives

  The stillness of eternity. ‘

  Ignatius nodded slowly. ‘That’s neither un-poetic nor agnostic,’

  he said quietly. ‘In fact it echoes the cave of Elijah.’

  They drove on in silence, both distracted by their own thoughts.

  As the van climbed over the crest of a bluff the lights of the town came into view. Their ways would soon be parting.

  ‘Forgive me if this sounds intrusive,’ said Ignatius, breaking the silence, ‘but I get the impression you suffered an intense cruelty when you were young.’

  ‘Where do you get that from?’ asked Rita.

  ‘The way you’ve rejected the faith of your childhood and your ongoing battle against it. Your antagonism towards God.’

  ‘My rejection of the Father. Nice bit of psychoanalysis, Brother Ignatius. You missed a career as a shrink.’

  ‘I apologise if …’

  ‘No need. You’re bang on the money.’ Rita gave a bitter laugh.

  ‘My father walked out when I was seven. The emotional trauma has coloured my life ever since - one of the reasons I’m both a police detective and a psychologist. You see, I’ve applied my own critique to myself. Conclusion? My pursuit of justice is prompted by childhood betrayal, profiling is an attempt to make sense of the despicable, and my driven personality is a backlash against my irrational guilt over losing my father’s love. And you’ve just added my rejection of God as a response to paternal abandonment. If I’m objective about it, I have to accept it’s all accurate and undoable.’

  ‘I don’t wish to presume but …’

  ‘Presume away.’

  ‘It’s clearly a matter of principle for you to be unyielding towards those who hurt others. But you seem to be even harder on yourself.’

  ‘You’re not the first to make that appraisal,’ she said.

  ‘And while you dismiss “theological concepts of God” , it must be clear to you that the creative source of the cosmos is beyond definition, even to scientists.’

  ‘Some of whom think it’s more like a great thought than a great machine,’ she agreed. ‘The universe as intelligence expressing itself. What’s your point?’

  ‘You’re not just at war with the ungodly,’ he answered. ‘You’re in conflict with God.’

  ‘Interesting diagnosis.’ Rita’s sarcasm was slipping through.

  ‘What remedy do you recommend?’

  ‘Forgive yourself,’ he said flatly. ‘And make peace with your God.’

  ‘ My God?’

  ‘Exactly. Him, Her or It - whatever concept of the eternal presence resonates in your soul.’ He blew out a sigh. ‘Now there’s heresy for you.’

  They both laughed. After such a heavy conversation it was something of a relief.

  As they drove into Whitley she directed him to where her car was parked in the street behind Mangrove Joe’s. Ignatius pulled up beside it, engine still running. Rita opened the door and got out.

  ‘Thanks for the lift,’ she said. ‘And a therapeutic debate.’

  ‘My pleasure. You’ll always be welcome at St Cedd’s, even if it’s just to refresh your view of Eden.’

  She shut the door and he negotiated an awkward U-turn, waving to her from his open window.

  ‘I still think I’m right about Genesis!’ she laughed, as he drove off.

  Rita walked slowly over to the Falcon, got behind the wheel and sighed.

  So much for paradise, she thought.

  She opened her bag and pulled out something Stonefish had given her. It was a glossy business card inscribed with the words Ice for Spice. Rita’s immediate task was to find out if Ice had ignored instructions and downloaded from the Rheingold disk. If she had, more hell would break loose.

  46

  It was the most exclusive apartment block in Whitley Marina Village, ten storeys of Tuscan-style architecture behind a wall of imitation rustic stone. Wrought-iron gates opened onto a driveway lined with cypress trees. Rita drove down it and parked in a forecourt lit by lanterns and fringed with trellises. The place was quiet with no one around, just the sounds from the nearby marina, the wash of the waves and the clink of rigging against the masts. She walked through a portico with terracotta roof tiles, showed her ID to the night concierge and took the lift to the top floor.

  She was crossing the landing to the penthouse suite when the door opened and a man in a pinstripe suit emerged, his tie askew and cheeks flushed. As he stepped aside for Rita they recognised each other. She couldn’t remember his name but his face was familiar from among the ranks of bureaucrats attending the security review at the base. Grimacing, his eyes bloodshot and alcohol on his breath, he moved hastily to the lift.

  She turned to the young woman leaning in the doorway of the apartment, a picture of lubricious charm in a gold scoop top, miniskirt and gold stilettos. At first glance her breasts were so prominent it was impossible to ignore them, though the augmentation was obvious. To Rita’s mind the contours were out of proportion - a petite frame carrying too much superstructure.

  The girl’s face was equally disconcerting, with accentuated eyes, lips and cheekbones giving her a sensual, almost savage beauty.

  Presumably that was the intention. From her platinum blonde hair to the flat abdomen and shapely curve of her thighs she could market herself as top of the range, thanks to a series of surgical enhancements.

  While the overall effect was dramatic, the psychological impact was questionable. This girl was only twenty-one but she had completely redesigned and reinvented herself, and while the end product was highly lucrative, it was also potentially tragic. She seemed to have reduced herself to a receptacle for male fantasies, a walking billboard offering sex for sale. Rita had seen enough prostitutes damaged by their avidity to recognise the signs of self-exploitation and the delusional motives behind it. Ice, for all her financial success, appeared to be following in their footsteps.

  ‘Marilyn Eisler?’ Rita asked.

  ‘My professional name is Ice,’ she said. ‘I see you’ve got my business card but not an appointment. What do you want?’

  ‘To talk.’

  ‘At midnight? Must be some conversation you’ve got in mind.

  Who are you?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Marita Van Hassel.’

  ‘A cop. I should’ve guessed. Where’d you get my card?’

  ‘From your mate Stonefish.’

  Ice folded her arms, trying to size up her visitor. ‘What’s this about?’

&
nbsp; ‘The disk he gave you. There could be repercussions. Can I come in?’

  ‘Not so fast. Are you saying I’m in trouble?’

  ‘No. I’m saying you’re in danger,’ replied Rita, annoyed.

  ‘Especially if you opened the disk.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Curiosity.’ Rita gave her a penetrating look. ‘You did download from it, didn’t you?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘It’s linked to the murders in Whitley.’

  Ice hugged her arms more tightly. ‘Rachel’s murder?’

  ‘Yes. And maybe four others.’

  With a shrug, Ice waved Rita through the door. ‘Sounds like crap to me but I suppose you’d better come in.’

  The penthouse had a feel of spacious luxury, the decor in keeping with the Mediterranean theme of the apartment block.

  There were white throw rugs on a tiled floor, expensive furnishings, ceramics and oil paintings of the Tuscan landscape, scenes of Florence. A wide balcony offered a view over the marina, lights gleaming along the breakwaters, yachts in geometric rows within their artificial harbour.

  ‘At least you haven’t disrupted business,’ said Ice, kicking off her stilettos. ‘That was my last customer for the night. Take a seat.’

  ‘I need to look at your computer.’

  ‘Sit down, for fuck’s sake. I need a drink. That guy was an arsehole.’

  Rita dumped her bag on the floor beside an armchair and sat down reluctantly as Ice lifted a bottle from a silver bucket and poured two glasses of champagne. She padded over in her bare feet and handed a glass to Rita before flopping back onto a sofa and taking a gulp.

  ‘Ah, that’s better. So what’s all this bullshit about the disk?’

  ‘If you’ve seen what’s on it, I assume you realise the implications.’

  ‘I may be a school dropout but I’m not stupid,’ said Ice. ‘It could shut down the base.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Serve the bastards right.’

  ‘I know you’re speaking from personal experience.’ Rita hadn’t forgotten about Ice’s relationship with Paul Giles and the encounter with Maddox. ‘But you don’t want to make enemies of them.’

  ‘What can they do?’

  ‘Think about it,’ said Rita. ‘National security gives them an excuse to operate outside the law. Rachel Macarthur just had a printout.’