Prohibited Zone (25 page)

‘I didn't go blabbing,' she said, annoyed. ‘If someone is leaking information, it certainly isn't me. I told you, Ray is our star witness. Apart from Saira, of course. And, yes, I do trust him. Of all the people in the team, I trust him the most. In fact, I think he's the
only
one I trust.'

‘Doc is a good person,' agreed Saira. ‘A good Muslim.'

‘Doc's a Muslim, is he?' I asked.

‘Yes, Sunni. I am Shi'a.'

‘What's the difference?'

‘The difference?'

‘Yes, what is the difference between Sunni Muslim and Shi'a Muslim?'

She seemed puzzled by the question and didn't answer.

‘I think it's a bit like the difference between Protestants and Catholics,' said Kara. ‘Two branches of the same religion claiming ownership of it. It started as a dispute over who would succeed Mohammed as leader of the faith, but in the end it has really just become a battle between two ethnic groups, a struggle for land, wealth and power, just like everything else.'

Saira nodded her head.

‘That is true, I think. But there is also fighting for religion. Taliban are Sunni. They say that Hazara are not Muslim because we are Shi'a. They say they kill us because we insult the Qur'an.'

‘Well, I don't understand anyone killing in the name of religion,' I said.

‘That's because you're not religious,' said Kara. ‘When you're locked inside a religious paradigm, the easiest thing in the world is to find a reason to hate everyone outside the paradigm. Particularly when they own land and wealth you think is yours and claim God for themselves.'

I stared at her as she popped an olive into her mouth.

‘What?' she asked, indistinctly.

‘Nothing. Just I think that's the first time I ever heard anyone say “paradigm” in a casual conversation. And you used it twice in the same sentence.'

‘Yeah? Well, perhaps that shows what sort of paradigm you have. A very small one.' She removed the olive pip from her mouth.

‘I do not have a small paradigm. How dare you.'

She managed a minor smile. Saira looked perplexed.

‘So is he coming down? The doc?'

‘Yes, he should be here about six.' It was four o'clock now.

‘How did your meeting go? This morning.'

‘It went well. I met Susan Loring, she's the producer, and Kat Kernell.'

‘Kat Kernell? Wow.'

‘Who is she?' asked Saira.

‘Kat Kernell is the gun reporter on
60 Minutes
,' said Kara.

‘Gun?'

‘It's a figure of speech. It means good, in this context. She'll be interviewing you tomorrow.'

‘She's very smart and very bad-tempered,' I said. ‘Famous for exposing the lies of politicians. She's ruined the career of at least one government minister and made life difficult for several others.'

‘Just what we want,' agreed Kara.

‘So how did you manage to score her?'

‘I told them I wouldn't deal with anyone else. It was Kat or it was another network. She's the only journalist I trust.'

‘In my experience you should never use the words “trust” and “journalist” in the same sentence.'

‘Oh, is that right? When have you ever had contact with a journalist?'

‘When I was a footballer I had to deal with them all the time. Unfortunately.'

‘You don't think I can trust Kat Kernell?'

‘All I'm saying is that like any journalist the main thing she wants is a story, the bigger the better. Anything else is incidental. When's the interview?'

‘Tomorrow. The film crew will be arriving first thing.' She saw me looking at her. ‘Yes, I also told her about this place. But they're not likely to tip off the cops until they've got their story in the can, are they?'

‘Unless the cops arriving is the story.'

‘Not with Kat. She wants Saira's story.'

‘So you say.'

The owner of the story yawned.

‘Go get some rest,' Kara said to her. ‘We need you radiant tomorrow. This evening we'll talk more about what you're going to say.'

Saira retired to one of the three bedrooms and closed the door. Kara was also on the move.

‘I need some sleep, too,' she said. ‘And so do you, by the look of it.'

‘We could sleep together.'

‘We could.' She met my eyes. There was a sofa and a corridor of uncertainty between us. ‘But maybe we shouldn't. I need to actually sleep. See you in a couple of hours.'

Somehow I ended up in the master bedroom, which was not only the largest but also had the best view. Lucy and I had shared it several times, particularly last winter. Once we had stood naked by the tinted window, my arms around her, watching a storm roll in from the west and sipping chardonnay from the same glass. It had felt powerful and delicious and there had been no strings attached. And maybe it was all over between us now.

I didn't sleep. I thought about the events of the last few days, trying to make sense of them. I couldn't. It seemed that Janeway and his cronies were after the girl so they could get their hands on the reward. But if that were true, why not aim for the other escapees, most of whom were probably still wandering the desert near Woomera? ASIO and the police were also after the girl, in their case apparently for reasons of national security. But Saira herself was not a security risk, was she? Why devote effort to tracking her down when they were really after her guardian, the highly scarred Amir? Perhaps they thought that Saira would lead them to him. Others, such as our kidnappers, were after her too. Who were they? Mercenaries dispatched by Corrections Australia? I thought about the sad, run-down little place in the Hills where we had been held. If I could find out who had been renting it, perhaps I would be closer to understanding what was going on. I picked up my phone, scanned its directory, found what I was looking for and pressed ‘call'.

‘G'day, Shovel,' I said when it was answered. ‘Steve West.'

‘Westie, you mongrel, how the fuck are yer?'

‘I've just had my face re-organised, but otherwise I'm fine.'

‘Well, you will go porkin' other guys' wives.'

‘What else am I supposed to do? I don't have one of my own.'

He laughed. ‘That's your choice, mate, but keep your dirty mitts off my missus, eh? Hey, I heard something funny the other day. You know what handcuffs are called in Spanish?
Esposas.
It means “wives”. Good name, eh?'

‘Shovel, you still in the same trade?'

‘Course I'm still in the same trade. How else am I gunna make a living?'

‘I thought maybe you'd started going straight.'

‘Give me a fucken break.'

‘Well, if you're still in the game, could you do me a favour?'

‘Depends.'

‘Depends on what?'

‘On why Mr Goody Two Shoes needs a man with my kind of skill.'

I'd known Shovel since high school, when we had played in the same Aussie rules football team. He had been a small, pacy forward renowned for stealing goals against the run of the play. He was still an opportunist, and he was still stealing.

‘It's a long story,' I said.

‘We'd better meet, Westie. I like a good story and you can buy me a beer while you spin it to me.'

It was after six but the two women were still sleeping and Ray Khoury hadn't arrived. I scribbled Kara a quick note, promising to return by midnight, and headed back to town.

20

W
E MET AT THE
E
DINBURGH
H
OTEL
in Mitcham, a fine old hotel with a pleasant beer garden and a young and happy clientele dressed predominantly in board shorts or short skirts. Shovel was sitting at a small table in the beer garden; he was halfway through a beer and watching the pub crowd with interest. He had earnt his nickname from the quantity of bullshit he peddled and had often entertained his teenaged footy colleagues with tales of his exploits. Once he had backed his car up to a loading bay at the back of a bottle shop to pick up a keg of beer for a footy function. With the keg loaded the manager had been called away, and Shovel had helped himself to a few free cases of rum. With typical generosity he had shared them with the footy club and the entire team had been pissed for three days. But while most of his teammates had eventually sobered up, grown up and found lawful employment, Shovel had not, and the cases of rum had just been the beginning of a career in crime. These days he specialised in breaking and entering but also did a profitable line in pickpocketing.

I sat down and passed him one of the two schooners of beer I had been carrying.

‘Shit, there's easy money to be had here, mate,' he said. ‘Have a look at that young bloke over there.' He nodded in the direction of a man with his back to us seated at a nearby table that was well-populated by pretty young women. They were laughing at something the man had said.

‘He has at least five hundred bucks in his wallet,' said Shovel, ‘and the fucken thing is almost poppin' out of his pocket. It's practically
beggin'
to be lifted. I wouldn't mind nickin' one of his fucken girlfriends, too, just quietly. The blonde one there, for example. She's
beggin'
for it.' He started to get out of his seat. ‘Watch the artist at work, mate.'

‘Not now, Shovel. We've got more important things to do.'

‘More important than five hundred bucks?'

‘Yes.'

‘You mean, maybe a thousand?' He sat back down, a little reluctantly. He was a good-looking man, with curly blond hair that was going thin on top and a light fuzz on his cheeks. He had a small gold hoop earring in his left ear and black wraparound sunglasses.

‘Shovel, there are other things in life besides money.'

He sighed. ‘This has got the ring of a bleeding-heart story. Alright, tell me how you got yer pretty face all messed up. There's gotta be some reason why Steve West is toyin' with a life of croime.'

I told him about the events of the last few days, from the moment of meeting Kara and Saira to our current hiding place in Port Willunga. I had told bits and pieces of the story to enough people over the last couple of days that I had it down pat. I was comfortable telling it to Shovel because I knew he was no blabbermouth – for him, secrecy was a professional necessity.

‘Okay,' he said when I'd finished and bought another round of beers. ‘Now I understand what this is all about. Yer cunt-struck, aren't ya?'

‘No, I just don't like being kidnapped, beaten and tortured. I've got a thing about it.'

‘Yeah, fair call, although you're foolin' yerself if yer don't think you're cunt-struck.' He ran his hand through his hair, fluffing his curls. ‘Okay, so this is the job,' he said. ‘You wanna break into the real-estate agents to find out who was rentin' the place where you was tortured.'

‘Yes.'

‘Piece of piss, although I've never done a realie's before. No cash in a joint like that.' He took off his sunnies; dusk was not far off and the light had mellowed. He had disturbingly pale eyes. ‘Can't imagine there'd be too much security. But, Westie, you gotta understand somethin'. This ain't a lark, y' know, it's the real thing. We get caught, we get two to four, you know that, right? That's years, not weeks.'

‘Let's not get caught,' I said. ‘I thought you were an artist.'

‘I am a fucken artist, and we won't get caught. But you should know what the risks are, that's all. It's alright for me, it's an occupational hazard. But imagine the headlines if a former Crows' star, such as yer good fucken self, gets done for B and E. “Goody Fucken Two Shoes gets Two to Four.” Hilarious, eh?'

It did sound funny, and we both laughed and clinked our glasses together.

We sat in the beer garden for a long time but after two more beers we switched to soft drinks.

‘My number one rule,' said Shovel, the pious one. ‘Never go to work pissed. A coupla drinks is okay, they loosen you up and actually work in yer fava, but a good worker knows where the line is, and believe me, it's a thin line, between being just lubricated enough to make it go smooth, and being sloppy and making the stupid mistake that'll put you in the fucken clink.'

That all sounded reasonable and I didn't debate it. We fell to reminiscing. By eleven we had discussed the current whereabouts and situations of all our former teammates and a few others besides. Shovel looked at his watch and stood up.

‘Let's check this fucken place out,' he said.