Death is Forever (21 page)

After hours spent dodging stock along the Great Northern Highway, Jason Street reached his satellite office in Kununurra. When he parked and walked to the office door, no one questioned what he was doing out and about in bush clothes that looked as though he’d crawled on his belly like a snake over the land. No one questioned the oozing reddish burn that showed just beneath the short, ragged right sleeve of his shirt.

No one questioned him at all for the simple reason that Kununurra rolled up its few narrow streets and went to bed shortly after the sun did. The only exception to the general lifelessness was in the beer halls and on the tribal land at the edge of town, where Aborigines gathered around a huge bonfire and drank themselves into a modern version of their ancient Dreamtime.

Street’s office was stale and roasting. He paused only long enough to turn on the air conditioner before he headed for the computer. He keyed in a code, lit a cigarette, and looked at the messages that had piled up while he’d chased all over the outback. The crop was about what he had expected—one of his security guards had showed up drunk for work at a mine, another client was complaining that his latest fee was too high, and a mining consortium wanted his opinion as to whether their latest decline in profits was due to a fall-off in the quality of the ore itself or to high-grading by the workers.

And Hugo van Luik had called.

Street cursed a stream of smoke, coughed, and looked at his wristwatch. Van Luik was probably still in his Antwerp office. Street picked up a phone that had a scrambler connected, entered the number, and waited.

Van Luik answered on the second ring.

“G’day, mate,” Street said, his Australian intonations making the words sound a good deal more cheery than he felt.

“Is it done?”

“Next time you send me on a hunt, you might tell me I’m after a real tiger.”

“Have I ever sent you after small game?”

“Jungle bunny rebels and chokie smugglers are one thing. This Blackburn-Markham bloke is another. He’s too good to be just a diamond hunter. You’re certain he isn’t CIA?”

“Regrettably, yes. A deal might have been struck with the CIA.”

Street swallowed a yawn and rubbed his scalp, where sweat had dried into a dirty crust. “Well, he’s at Abe’s station by now.”

“Mr. Blackburn is a very lucky man.”

“Lucky?” Street snarled, angry at the suggestion that he was doing less than his best work. “From where I sit, it looks more like he’s one smart, tough bastard. Passport in another name, driver’s license, the lot.”

“What went wrong?”

“Bloody everything, that’s what. He vetted the Rover like he was looking for fleas. He found everything that could go wrong and fixed it. Took him hours. Nora wanted to hire him as a mechanic. So much for an ‘accidental’ breakdown.”

“Go on.”

“Oh, I did that, too. Chased them all over the bloody back of beyond. Blackburn spotted me once I turned onto the dirt road. He ran for Windjana. My vehicle had more legs than Nora’s old Rover. I figured to catch them at the park. Rented car breaks down and two Yank tourists wander off and die in the outback, just like Crazy Abe. Bloody sad and all that, but the outback has killed better men before and will kill them again. No worries, mate. Not a one.”

Van Luik’s breath came in hard at the thought of the inquisition that would have followed Erin Shane Windsor’s death, no matter how innocent the circumstances might have seemed. Yet even as sweat pooled along his spine, he admired the tempting, brutal simplicity of Street’s plan. All problems solved in one stroke.

“What happened?” van Luik asked after a moment.

“Blackburn hid somewhere in Windjana until I went by. Then he doubled back again to the Gibb and retraced his trail until he found a spur road that connected with the Great Northern Highway. As soon as I was sure I’d lost him, I went on to Fitzroy Crossing, where he had to stop for petrol. When I got there, one of the roadtrains was parked for a bit of tucker. It was dark and no one was about except the plonkos. I decided to have a go at flattening the bastard. I jiggered the ignition and went looking for Blackburn’s headlights. Thought I had him, but he’s bloody quick. He went rocketing into the bush, banged about, and pranged on a termite mound.” Street paused to stub out his cigarette.

Van Luik said nothing.

“Took me awhile to bring that bloody great roadtrain to a stop,” Street said. “Then I had to get back to the Rover. Took me awhile to do that, too. I wasn’t about to have a go at Blackburn on the rush. He’s too cute by half. Bloody good thing I tiptoed. He had a sawed-off shotgun. Nearly did for me right there.”

“Could he identify you?” van Luik demanded.

“Not a chance. It was dark and I didn’t get that close. If I had, I’d be dead.”

“The girl?”

“Never saw her.”

“Could she have been hurt?”

“I checked the Rover before he tried to blow off my head. She wasn’t inside. He could have carried her off somewhere in the bush. He’s bloody big.”

“Is there any chance that you will be connected with the stolen vehicle?”

Street laughed roughly. “The dole had just come in. Those Abos wouldn’t have recognized their own mother.”

“Explain,” van Luik demanded.

“The Australian government pays off the Abos for being born, and the Abos take their cut of the dole to the nearest bottle shop and buy enough beer to make them forget they were ever born at all. No one white and sober saw me.”

“Where are you now?”

“Kununurra. I’ll go to Abe’s station as soon as I’m called in to appraise the leases. Tomorrow, probably, if the file clerk pulls out her finger. Day after for certain.”

Van Luik let the silence build before he said carefully, “Despite the fact that you have negotiated Abelard Windsor’s contracts with ConMin and DSD for the last ten years, your government is being recalcitrant about having you officially appraise the Sleeping Dog mining leases.”

“Bugger all!” Street snarled. “Has she moved on getting the will recognized yet?”

“Matthew Windsor did. He, of course, is in a position to see that matters proceed at a brisk pace.”

Street lit another cigarette, blew smoke, and said, “We can’t wait until I get the green light on appraising the leases. Blackburn’s partner has put enough high-tech prospecting equipment at the station to make me nervous.”

“We are negotiating with the Americans about the appraisals,” van Luik said finally. “They are divided. I expect your permission to come through shortly.”

“It better, mate. I’ve got some of the station Abos watching the countryside for any prospecting, but they could go walkabout at any time.”

“Pay them more.”

Street made an impatient sound and wondered how he could explain Australia’s natives to a man as urbanized as van Luik.

“Money doesn’t work real well with Abos. Fear does. So long as they think I’m Abe’s shadow, they’ll obey me. But if I lean too hard, they’ll go walkabout.”

Van Luik breathed in slowly, then he spoke with great precision. “If Erin Windsor brings that mine into production, you are a dead man.
Mazel und broche.
”

The connection went dead. Street looked at the receiver and said, “But what if I’m the one to bring the mine into production, you stupid sod?”

He laughed, then winced at the pain in his arm as he tossed the receiver into the cradle.

“Choke on your
mazel
, old man. Rack off and die.”

Erin awoke disoriented, wondering where she was. The steamy heat, the lack of a mattress, and the lair-like smell of the room itself brought everything back. She was at the Windsor station, sleeping in her great-uncle’s bedroom. Or what was left of it.

Cole had taken one look at the bed and thrown it into the backyard, mattress and all. He’d brought in sleeping bags and pads from the Rover. Without a word he’d set up two pallets in Abe’s room and settled down to sleep next to her with his body blocking the closed door.

Lying motionless, she remembered the currents of barely controlled emotion she’d sensed in Cole when she’d walked into the station house. He’d introduced her to a Chinese woman called Lai, a woman whose hungry black glance had been all over Cole like hands. He hadn’t introduced Erin to the six other men at the station who were also Chinese. They didn’t understand English—or, if they did, they kept it to themselves.

Lai knew English. Erin suspected that the Chinese woman also knew Cole Blackburn. Or wanted to.

Restlessly Erin rolled over on the hard floor, tired but no longer able to sleep despite the exhaustion of her body. The sleeping bag Cole had used was pushed to the side, empty. The door was closed. She looked at the door and wondered if he was with Lai of the hungry eyes and exquisitely fragile body. The thought of him alone with the Chinese beauty made Erin’s mouth flatten and turn down with a jealousy she was too honest to deny.

Cole’s voice came from the other side of the closed door. “Erin? The helicopter is almost ready.”

She sat up quickly, then groaned.

The door opened so fast that it banged against the wall. Cole stood in the opening looking as dangerous as a drawn gun. His gray glance flashed over the room and found nothing but the grim accommodations that Abe had always preferred. Other than the mussed, gritty tank top and shorts Erin was wearing, she seemed fine.

“What’s wrong?” Cole asked, looking intently at her.

“What do you mean?”

“I heard a sound, like you were in pain.”

She grimaced. “I’m just a little stiff after sleeping on the floor.”

Slowly he relaxed. “The princess and the pea, huh?”

“More like a bowling ball.”

He helped her to her feet, then held her close, giving her a hungry kiss that made her forget all the aches.

The sound of someone moving just beyond the open door was as startling as a shot. Although Cole’s back was to the doorway, he didn’t have to turn to identify the eavesdropper. He knew that Lai had followed him from the kitchen when he’d come to awaken Erin.

“What is it, Lai?” he asked without turning around.

Erin’s eyes widened at the change in Cole. The difference was shocking. The sensual heat and gentleness were gone. In their place was a leashed, violent emotion that could have been anger or something close to raw desire. When she tried to ease away from the intimate embrace, he held her in place as much with his glance as with his hands.

“Chen Wing has called,” Lai said. “He asks to speak with you.”

Lai’s voice was hushed, soft, controlled, but her eyes hungrily watched Cole’s body. For just an instant she glanced at Erin as though measuring her for a shroud. Then Lai lowered her eyes and waited with the outwardly patient obedience peculiar to unemancipated women in the traditional Chinese culture.

Uneasiness moved in waves over Erin’s skin. Any doubt she might have had about the currents running between Cole and Lai was gone. Cole and Lai knew each other.

Intimately.

“Tell him I’ll be there in a minute,” Cole said.

Lai turned and walked away, her high heels clicking on the wooden floor. Her obedience might have been that of a traditional Chinese woman, but her clothes were an elegant synthesis of West and Orient. She wore the traditional black silk slacks, but they weren’t baggy. They fitted with a perfection that only personal tailoring could provide. Her blouse was also silk, also black, and unbuttoned to a fashionable depth that showed the swell of her golden breasts. Her burnished black hair hung in a smooth curtain that came to her hips.

The photographer in Erin reluctantly concluded that she’d never seen a more attractive female.

“She’s stunning,” Erin said finally.

“Yes.”

The word was like his expression, utterly neutral. Erin had no way of knowing what emotions lay beneath his surface. She knew only that emotions were there, shielded with every bit of his considerable self-control.

“How long have you known her?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“Long enough.”

“For what?”

“I’ll go talk to Wing. Bring me some coffee, would you? It may take awhile.” He stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder. “In any case, from now on don’t be out of my sight for more than three minutes at a time. And never be out of calling distance. Understand?”

She blinked. “Don’t you trust Lai and those men?”

“I don’t trust anybody. That’s why I’m still alive. Stay close to me. Always. If I have to come looking for you, I’ll come ready to kill.”

He strode through the shambles of the house to the room Wing’s men had gutted and turned into a communications center. Everything Cole would need to talk to Wing or to transmit and receive computer information was already in place.

Cole picked up the phone. “Hell of a job, Wing. I was expecting to tap out my messages on a computer.”

“Thank you. I regret the delay in the bedding and in the improved plumbing. Lai has promised to redouble the efforts of the men. Is everything working?”

“New generator, transmitter, receiver, modems, computers, fax, and some stuff I haven’t even had a chance to play with yet,” he said, looking around. “You must have had a small army for the installation.”

“There were several bush pilots who were more than willing to haul people and supplies at triple rates, despite the lack of a decent landing strip. I also took the liberty of beginning the survey immediately. The findings are being processed as we speak. If you have any reason to suspect the technician’s competence or the pilot’s navigational integrity, the helicopter stands ready to repeat the entire sequence.”

“Why did you start without me?” Cole asked bluntly.

“We learned that someone else has been quartering the Windsor station by helicopter. I have to assume they are after the same information we are. Under the circumstances I had no choice but to go ahead on the survey.”

“Who was it?”

“We’re still working on that. The helicopter was rented by International Mining Security Advisors Ltd. The company is owned by an Australian called Jason Street and takes contracts from various mining interests to advise on or to create security for their mines. Unfortunately, IMSA’s security is quite good. We can’t find who hired IMSA to do the survey. The technician simply had his orders and followed them.”

“Does IMSA own any mines in Australia or any interest in an existing mine?”

“No.”

“Does it do a lot of work for the diamond cartel?” Cole asked.

“A modest amount. Something less than twelve percent of its net profit. Interestingly enough, Mr. Street was formerly with ASIO.”

“Formerly?” Cole said sardonically. “Once sworn, never foresworn.”

“We are aware of that probability. In any case, as the Australian government finally is being brought to the point of cooperating with BlackWing on this venture, I doubt that Mr. Street is a direct threat to your operation in the long run.”

“Keep after IMSA and Street,” Cole said flatly.

“Agreed.” Wing took a breath. “Lai said you were injured.”

Cole gave Lai a narrow look. She watched him like he was a god walking among men. Once he’d trusted that look. Now he recognized it as another part of her sexual allure, an act that was as carefully constructed as the silk clothing she wore.

“A bullet burn on my thigh from Darwin,” Cole said.

“Ah, yes, Darwin,” Wing murmured. “You haven’t mellowed, have you? Uncle Li was quite gratified. The local police are quite mystified.”

“Good.”

“Lai mentioned another incident…?” Wing probed.

“Roadtrain tried to flatten us near Fitzroy.”

“Anything that needs, er, explaining to the local authorities?”

“No. I missed the bastard.”

“I see.” Wing hesitated. “As you requested, I have pressed for the details of Abelard Windsor’s death. Everything seems within reason. He was never a very stable man, I take it. He walked out into the bush with a can of Fosters in one hand and a shovel in the other and was never seen alive again.”

“Probably the climate pushed him over the edge,” Cole muttered. “Jesus, I hate buildup.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Anything else?”

“No.”

“Who looked for him?”

There was the sound of Wing rustling through papers. “It appears the people on the station who might have noticed Mr. Windsor’s absence were quite drunk themselves. Finally one of the Aborigines—Sarah is her name—sobered up enough to realize that something was wrong. She called Jason Street. By the time he returned to the station, it was too late.”

“Returned? Does he live here?”

“He and Mr. Windsor often drank together for extended periods. If gossip is to be believed, they shared other tastes in common. Apparently Mr. Street is fond of women of color. He is also a redoubtable fighter. It was Mr. Street who found our people going through the station house. He killed two of them without sustaining any particular injury himself.”

Cole’s eyebrows went up. “Two of them, huh? Tough bastard. What did the Australian cops think of that?”

“Nothing. Mr. Street caught the people in the act of burglary, they attacked him, and he killed them. Regrettable, but they were only slants after all.”

Cole heard and understood the undercurrent of rage in Wing’s voice. Many Australians, especially in the outback, had little use for nonwhites. Chinese, in particular.

“What did the autopsy say about Abe?” Cole asked.

“If there was an autopsy, the results weren’t included in the report. There was simply a statement that death came as the result of heat prostration. It was quite some time before the body was discovered. Considering the climate, I doubt there was a great deal left to work with.”

“I don’t like Street’s name turning up so often.”

“Noted, but not really meaningful. There are so few people in the Kimberley it is unavoidable that the same names would crop up repeatedly, particularly in that Mr. Street was as close to a friend as Mr. Windsor had. Mr. Street even negotiated the Sleeping Dog contract with DSD. Undoubtedly he will be the man designated by the Australian government to appraise the state of the various Windsor leases.”

“Keep Street out of here,” Cole said flatly.

“We’re trying. Unfortunately, while certain members of ASIO are being reasonably cooperative with us, the Australian government itself shows every indication of being lobbied by various powerful members of the cartel.”

“Are you certain Street doesn’t belong to ConMin?”

“We have found no convincing proof he is ConMin’s, and we are looking very diligently. I think Street’s attraction for the various members of the cartel stems from the fact that he isn’t our man.”

“Any potential competitor of ours is a potential friend of theirs?”

“Precisely.”

“I assume you’re taping this,” Cole said.

“As always.”

“That will save faxing you the list of camera equipment Erin decoyed to London.”

“Everything is already at the station. We removed it at the New York stopover and rerouted it via a private courier. It arrived while you slept.” Wing chuckled softly. “ASIO was most surprised when they took apart the crates in the Darwin customs office. It seems they had erroneously concluded that Ms. Windsor was not really interested in photographing their lovely country.”

Cole grunted.

“Apparently they expected to find esoteric mining supplies,” Wing continued, savoring the bit of deception. “Instead they found only ordinary cameras, lenses, and film. Imagine their disappointment—”

“How did you explain all the electronic gear you installed here?” Cole cut in.

“It hasn’t been installed anywhere. BlackWing’s office in Darwin will be undergoing an expansion soon. We simply ordered and warehoused everything in advance to make sure all was at hand when we needed it.”

Cole smiled at the satisfaction oozing from every syllable of Wing’s speech. Then amusement faded from Cole’s expression. “Just one more thing.”

“Yes?” Wing said warily, hearing the change in the other man’s tone.

“Lai is on the first transport out of here.”

“That would make Uncle Li most unhappy.”

“Tough shit.”

“Lai is experienced in specialized communications and in computer programming with application to mineral surveys. She will be invaluable.”

“Not to me.”

“You sound like a man with an emotional investment in the subject. Perhaps even like a man still in love?”

Dispassionately Cole decided it was just as well Wing was on the other end of a very long communications link. Cole would probably regret delivering Wing in pieces to his too-clever Uncle Li.

“Having Lai rub up against me every time I turn around won’t start the kind of fire Uncle Li has in mind,” Cole said flatly. “The Chen family isn’t going to get their hands on any more than half of my half of the mine. Tell Li I’m disappointed in his estimate of my intelligence.”

“There is no need to irritate him. He had nothing more in mind when he sent Lai than for her to provide you with the best liaison the Chen family has to offer.”

Cole laughed coldly. When he breathed in, a haunting fragrance bathed his senses, calling up buried memories of hot nights and a golden woman crying love as she climaxed beneath him.

Rooting and hooting about love./Mistresses of lies,/ Damn their hot cries.

“Liaison, huh?” Cole repeated. “Is that what you call prostitution in Hong Kong these days?”

There was no answer.

“Listen to me, Wing. Your men—and your thoroughly trained sister—had better treat Erin Windsor’s welfare like it’s the only hope for the survival of the Chen clan. Because it is. Tell Uncle Li to read between the lines in my file. Do you understand me?”