Dragons at the Party (37 page)

“No, it isn’t.” She told him about Sun’s arrest. “You have to have it stopped, Philip, before it gets into the papers. We can’t afford to have him in the hands of the police—”

“We? I’ve got nothing to do with this—”

“Oh yes, you have. If he starts to talk, everything will come out. Russell has told me about his promise to you—what’s in it for you—”

“There’s nothing in it for me!” The golden voice sounded on the edge of hysteria. “That’s just Russell’s talk—he’s always trying to make out he has more influence with me than he has—”

“Philip,” she said quietly but coldly, “have this stopped.
Now!
”

She hung up and turned to Hickbed, who said, “I told you—you’ll get nothing out of him—”

“I think I know Philip better than you do.” What she meant was that she knew men better than he did. But women have been boasting of that since Eve discussed Adam with the serpent. “Now I’m
going
back to bed.”

“What about Zanuch? He wants to talk to you.”

“Let him talk to you. You claim you know nothing—you’ll be safer than I would.” She gave him a thin smile, opened the door and went out of the study. Then she came back, “I may need a book to read myself to sleep. What have you here?”

She looked along the rows of books, taking her time; Hickbed could offer her no suggestions nor did he want to. Finally she took down
The Wilder Shores of Love
, tales of other adventurous women, said good night and left him. Left him wondering why he had ever been attracted to her.

II

Malone said, “Mr. Sun, why don’t you call up a lawyer? Mr. Quirke, maybe? He’d advise you to talk to us. It would make it easier for you and us.”

“I have no need of a lawyer, Inspector. I have nothing to hide.”

“It seems to us,” said Clements, “you have a great deal to hide. That’s why you’re saying nothing. We have those tapes, you know.”

“I don’t know anything about the phone calls you speak of. May I ask an academic question? Are tapes allowed as admissible evidence in your law courts?”

“You’re too much of a smart-arse,” said Clements and threw his notebook, which contained nothing but Sun’s name, down on the table.

They were in the interrogation room at Homicide, a bare room that made no one feel at home, not even the interrogators. They had brought Sun in here without being followed by any reporters. Most of the media men and women were at St. Vincent’s waiting for news of Timori; the two who had been left to hold the fort at Point Piper had either been asleep in one of their cars or gone somewhere for a cup of coffee. Bringing Sun here to Homicide had been easier than Malone had expected. It was one small break in a chain of frustrations and disasters.

“Do you work for the President or for Madame Timori?”

“
For both of them, Inspector. But I am the President’s private secretary.”

“What do you do for Madame Timori besides arrange her investments?”

“Just small odd tasks.”

“Like making phone calls to Beirut for her?”

Clements was too experienced to sit up at that, but out of the corner of his eye Malone saw him bite his lip. There was no reaction at all from Sun Lee.

“I don’t know what you mean, Inspector.”

“Isn’t Madame Timori the one who’s paying for the President to be murdered?” Again there was no reaction from Sun and Malone said, “You don’t seem surprised at the suggestion, Mr. Sun? Sergeant Clements is.”

“A little,” said Clements, almost as inscrutable as the Chinese.

“Oh, I am surprised,” said Sun, but still showed no change of expression. Then abruptly he smiled. “I am
shocked
. Madame Timori would be, too. I thought you were an old friend of hers.”

“Never a friend, Mr. Sun. Are all their overseas investments, the billions the newspapers say they have—are they in their joint names? Or in her name only? In any case, if the President dies, they would all be hers, wouldn’t they?”

“Possibly. I have never seen the President’s last will and testament.”

“His private secretary and you’ve never seen it?”

“Private secretaries are not privy to all secrets, Inspector.”

Malone looked at Clements, his private secretary, and grinned. “Is that so, Sergeant?”

“I didn’t know about Madame Timori being a suspect,” said Clements. “But it’s a good idea. Maybe we should bring her in?”

“That would cause an international incident.” For the first time Sun Lee showed some concern.

“We’re just police,” said Clements. “We never worry about international incidents. We leave that to the diplomats.”

Then the phone rang. Clements picked it up, said, “Sergeant Clements, Homicide,” then
frowned.
“Yes, sir. Just a moment.” He handed the phone to Malone. “The Commissioner.”

Malone looked at his watch: 2.10. He, too, frowned. “Inspector Malone.”

Leeds’ voice was cold. “I understand you have President Timori’s secretary in for questioning.”

“Just a moment, sir.” Malone waved towards the door. Clements stood up, took Sun’s arm and escorted him out of the interrogation room. Then Malone said, “That’s right, sir. I brought him in with the intention of charging him with conspiracy to murder. He’s the go-between between Miguel Seville and whoever is paying for the job.”

“You have evidence?”

Malone hesitated. “Not something I could use in court.”

Leeds didn’t have to have things spelled out for him. “Tapes? Forget them, Inspector. Let Mr. Sun go.”

“Sir—?”

“Don’t argue, Inspector. Let him go. Then meet me at the Premier’s office, his Parliament House office, in fifteen minutes. Come in the rear entrance.”

The phone went dead and Malone sat staring at it. The Commissioner had not spelled things out for him, but the message had been clear enough. Politics had taken over the law again.

III

Philip Norval had done something he had sworn he would never do: he had called on Hans Vanderberg in the latter’s office. Admittedly he had done it at 2.15 in the morning and only after he had agonized whether he should phone The Dutchman and ask the favour. He had always kept the Premier at more than arm’s length and now he was trying to embrace him.

He had rung Vanderberg at his home in Glebe. He had not been surprised when Gertrude answered; she was famous for her protection of her husband. “Mr. Norval—at this hour? He’s dog tired—I don’t think I could raise him.”

“Please, Mrs. Vanderberg—” He could call strangers all over the country by their first names; but
not
her. Gert and Gertrude were names that stuck on his tongue; somehow, in his ears, they never sounded like real names. Candice, Tuesday, even Delvina; but not Gert or Gertrude. “Mrs. Vanderberg, it’s very important—”

She went away grumbling and a minute later The Dutchman, grumbling, came to the phone. “What is it, Phil? Has your mate kicked the bucket?”

“Not yet. Hans, I have to see you—
now
. Can I come to your house?”

“What’s it about?”

“Sun Lee, Timori’s private secretary, has just been arrested for conspiracy to murder. Some smart-arse cop named Malone has taken him in.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Stop it. Pull strings, use your influence. Can I come and see you?”

“Not here. The missus won’t allow any politicians in the house.” He pondered a moment. “See me at my office in Parliament House. Come in the back way. I take it you don’t want to be seen in my company?” The chuckle down the line was full of malice.

“I’ll be there. Twenty minutes.”

Norval went alone, not wanting any of Godbold’s advice on this matter. The duty chauffeur was used to being called out at odd hours, but he had never had to deliver the PM to the back door of State Parliament House. He pulled the car in below the office block that backed the old colonial building and wondered if he was expected to stay out here parked on the edge of the Domain, the big park where anyone might come out from under the shadow of the trees and hold a knife to your throat. The chauffeur came from Canberra and was prepared to believe all the stories he read about Sydney being the crime capital of Australia.

“Better not stay here,” said Norval as he got out. But he was not thinking of the chauffeur’s safety, only that the Rolls-Royce might be recognized. Though why any reporter should be prowling around the back of Parliament House in the middle of the night, he didn’t stop to consider. He was becoming paranoid about secrecy, though he was just about to go in and confide in a man who used
secrets
like bullets. “Come back in half an hour.”

A security guard met him at the rear entrance and conducted him upstairs. The Premier’s office was a small suite where he attended to his parliamentary business; the rooms in the State office block were for departmental business. This, Norval knew, was where what The Dutchman called skulbuggery occurred. He was in the right place for it, but he wished he were somewhere else.

The lights were on, but the curtains were drawn. The Dutchman, in trousers, pyjama jacket and a brown suit jacket, was waiting for him. With him was Police Commissioner Leeds, still in evening dress, as immaculate as if the night were just beginning.

“Oh.” Norval pulled up as the door closed behind him. “I thought this was just between you and me, Hans. No offence, Commissioner.”

“I don’t run my police force like that,” said Vanderberg, sounding pious but smiling like a devil who had just been given the keys to the Vatican. “John Leeds has got to be in on this. It’s his bailiwickle you’re asking me to butt into.”

Norval shrugged resignedly. “Okay, I asked for it. You know what’s happened, Mr. Leeds?”

The Commissioner nodded. “I’ve been in touch with Inspector Malone, who made the arrest. He’s on his way here.”

“Jesus! Do we have to have him in on it, too?”

“He has the evidence, so he says. We need to know what that is before I decide what to do.” There was a knock at the door and Leeds went to it and opened it. “Ah, Inspector Malone. You didn’t take long.”

“I was curious, sir—” Then Malone saw who else was in the room. He had expected to see the Premier, but not the Prime Minister. He nodded respectfully to both political leaders, neither of whom he had ever voted for. He had the feeling his respect was not going to last very long. The room smelled of politics, as if something—morals, decency, honesty—had died in it. My nose is too sensitive, he thought.

Norval, out of character for him, plunged in off the deep end. “What’s this about arresting Sun Lee for—what do you call it?—conspiracy to murder? You have a hide, Inspector. Christ, don’t you know
what
this can do to our foreign relations?” He wasn’t sure himself, but most Australians, Neil Kissing had told him, knew next to nothing about foreign relations.

“I was only looking at it from the viewpoint of the law, sir.”

“Jesus, if we did that, where would we be?”

The two policemen looked at each other. The two politicians looked at each other. Only the latter were in agreement on the sentiment just expressed.

Malone, feeling he was floating in mid-air now, said, “This man Seville has killed three people, two of them Australians. He’s all but killed President Timori tonight. He’s not here of his own accord—”

“How do you know that?”

“He’s not a Lone Ranger, sir, not in terms of carrying out a killing campaign of his own. Someone’s employing him.”

“Nobody’s claimed credit. They usually do within an hour of whatever has happened.”

“Those are terrorist gangs. More than half the claims come from gangs that had nothing to do with the bombing or assassination or whatever it happens to be—all they want is publicity for themselves and the media are stupid enough to give it to them. Nobody’s issued any claim or any warning on this attempt.”

“So you think Sun Lee is the one who’s employing Seville?”

“No, sir. I think he’s just the go-between.”

Vanderberg had sat silent through all this, his bare-ankled feet in scuffed leather slippers propped up on his desk. Behind him a silver-framed photo of Gertrude watched him with a wifely smile.

“What’s your evidence, Inspector?” he said.

Malone hesitated, looked at Leeds, then back at the Premier. “I’d rather not say, for the moment.”

“Why not?”

Malone was acutely aware of his situation. He could not confess in front of the Prime Minister that he had listened to tapes of phone taps on the PM’s own Sydney residence. It could be that the PM
knew
the phone lines were tapped when visitors were in residence; it was also just as likely that he didn’t know. ASIO, like intelligence organizations all over the world, didn’t trust the intelligence of its political leaders. The CIA and the KGB were forever proving that.

Vanderberg glanced at Leeds. “Can you make him tell us?”

“I could order him to, yes,” said the Commissioner. “But I trust his judgement.”

Thank you, said Malone silently. Leeds had stood by him in the past and he had not spoiled the record now. Some day Malone hoped he could repay the Commissioner’s loyalty, but he could never imagine Leeds being in a situation where he would need a junior officer to defend him.

The Dutchman, surprisingly, accepted Leeds’ answer. Perhaps he was tired, too old at seventy to want to fight in the shank of the night. He threw the fishing line back to Norval. “You satisfied, Phil?”

Norval knew that he was out-numbered and in the wrong territory. He was Sydney born and bred, but when he had gone to Canberra he had lost his citizenship as far as these three were concerned. He had never been brave, so he was not going to be foolish. “I guess I have to be. But do you have a suspect, Inspector? I mean, who’s paying Seville?”

Malone hesitated again; then decided to be brave if foolish. “I think it is Madame Timori.”

“
What?
” The golden voice turned tinny. Even Vanderberg sat up, taking his feet off the desk so fast he kicked off one of his slippers and had to grope under the desk for it. Leeds, who knew his man, just pursed his lips.

He said, “That’s quite a charge, Inspector.”