

### Directive RIP

### Stuart Parker

Copyright © 2014 by Stuart Parker

Cover art: Mark Shearman

Shearart.blogspot.com

1

'All clear and stand by. Detonation countdown from ten, nine, eight –'

Jock McClean was an explosives expert of twenty years experience and these derelict old brickworks were primed ready to be his next big moment. It was in a part of the city where he had been getting a lot of work lately. Ten years ago there wasn't enough interest in the Docklands even to send cops against the squatters, but with easy money flooding into the city this was suddenly a prime location for something tall and glittering: a Singaporean holdings firm had made the investment and was now paying McClean's A-Z Demolitions a small fortune to blow up what once had been.

Tall and strong, with immaculate silver hair resistant to the stiff, salty onshore breeze, McClean stood inside the barrier tape with the air of a fearless general. Concealed by dark sunglasses, he had one eye on his timer and the other on the condemned factory. The only creatures nearer to it than him were the sea-gulls nesting in the wide gaps in the cracked and decrepit brick walls: they were relaxed for the moment, but that was about to change.

McClean, himself, was already on edge: he had worked with much larger distances between buildings and as decrepit as these brickworks might have been, it would still require quite a force to knock down, and that made for a complex operation. Nonetheless, implosion was the name of the game and no chance had been taken. Check and recheck, and calculation and recalculation had been carried through to the minutest detail, and the couple of hundred excited onlookers were contained well back in designated viewing areas. For McClean the job, or at least the climactic detonation, was always personally satisfying: kicked out of college for dropping a pretentious architectural student over a barroom argument, he now dropped their buildings with equal efficiency, leaving the rubble for someone else to clean up.

'-three, two, one-'

McClean glanced at his beloved 2006 MTI blue Porsche, parked on the otherwise deserted street alongside the brickworks in his trade mark demonstration of confidence.

Crack.

Being a semi-professional pool player in his downtime, he knew the success-or-failure recognition that came from the very first instant of impact, but failure had become so rare and inexplicable in his demolitions that even with bricks starting to fly through his car windows he was refusing to register the bitter taste in his mouth. A whole section of the west wall was crashing down on his car and the road around it.

'Oh, my Lord,' came a single voice from amongst the crew behind him.

'He's the only one on our team that's not accountable for this!' snapped McClean.

'The west wall didn't blow out,' came the pensive voice of Dime Richards, his operations manager, over the two-way. 'What the hell happened?'

McClean unclenched his teeth only enough to reply: 'Is it criminal negligence or just plain criminal? That's the question.'

*

Detective Sergeant Helio Burres already knew the answer and his Heckler and Koch pistol was on his lap as he made the call. Breeze, as he was known by everyone bar the Office for Police Integrity, was the only son of Afro-French parents, and the only one in the family to wind up in Australia's European chestnut: Melbourne. He spoke accentless English, though with the occasional local profanity.He had always suspected he made it into the Victorian Police Force on the back of a politically correct multi-culture drive, and he resented them for it, making it a distinct goal not to give them any political correctness in return. He wore gold bracelets and silk suits and looked too much like a movie cop, which was probably why he got on so well with the average low-life gangster.

A wave of dust from Jock McClean's demolition site had reached as far as the rundown 2-A Dale Street warehouse, a good three blocks away. Breeze was sitting in his spacious black Ford SUV, his attention fixed on the warehouse's mesh-glassed front door as his call was finally taken.

'Yeah?'

It was his partner, Furn, and his voice was alarmingly placid: it was generally only a serious case of hard living that produced that kind of affability.

'I've tracked our boy down to a Dockland's warehouse,' said Breeze. 'Something big is going down. How soon can you get here?'

'Is he alone?'

'No, there are at least three of his buddies as well.'

'Well, that's too many for us. Keep him under surveillance and let me know when the numbers even up.'

Breeze sighed and realised Furn was definitely juiced up on something.

'It's not a holding situation,' he muttered. 'They've appropriated explosives from a demolition site. We can't let them go underground with them.'

There was a pause at the other end of the line. 'That revelation has altered my ETA from never to half an hour or so.'

'It'll be all over by then,' said Breeze, starting to get bored. 'You're supposed to be my partner. '

'I'm with my partner right now. It's easy to feel the difference. You want to talk to her?'

The line went dead and Breeze fired off some of those profanities that came up in unofficial naturalisation tests. He had to scroll a long way down in his cell phone's address book to the next professional number.

'This is Detective Sergeant Burres requesting back up at 2-A Dales Street, Docklands,' he said as soon as the connection clicked open.

'Who?' asked the female Criminal Investigations Bureau dispatcher.

'Breeze.'

'Oh.' The voice became reticent. 'Where's Furn?'

'Apparently screwing his girlfriend.'

'With that woman? He's the one requiring back up, right?'

Breeze chuckled, wishing he could place the voice. 'Well, me first.'

'I'll see what's out there but any assistance might be coming by sea-mail. Don't you have your own unit to contact?'

Breeze realised she was being cute again, for his unit consisted of only one another person. 'Riley has been called into Canberra for a meeting with the Prime Minister. He wasn't expecting this. Our unit is intended to deal with dirt not emergencies.'

The voice became concerned at last. 'What are you into?'

'Crooks with explosives. Once the explosives are stabilised they'll be gone.'

'Unstabilised explosives - usually my officers would jump at an invitation like that,' replied the dispatcher sarcastically.

Breeze chuckled again. 'The backflow to this isn't going to taste so good, that's true. That's why it's my job.'

'Care to elaborate?'

'Just the usual: for every powerful figure there is a screw up of a child.'

'I see.'

'Better not to tell you anymore. I'll write down everything I know and put it in the glove box. If I go down, let Furn know. I'll put it on top - he's such a useless cop he probably wouldn't find it otherwise.'

'Ok. Good luck.'

Breeze ended the call quickly, before he lost his head and asked her out on a date. How many soldiers had got themselves married in a war only to find the problems really started once they had survived? No blind dates with police officers. That rule was hard and fast. He pulled out some paper from the glove box and rifled through his pockets for a pen - all he came up with was his 12 calibre Remington back up pistol - the only kind of backup he knew he could really count on. All the rigmarole of making calls and writing statements was only to ensure if things went bad that his life insurance was paid out properly. Insurance companies being the way they were would likely try to write a raid like this off as suicide and withhold payment. There was a son, an estranged wife and a kindly aunt back in Niece to consider. So Breeze kept looking for a pen until he had found one in the back seat and then he scrawled out a summary statement on the case: details of the crimes committed, the perpetrators and their rather more dangerous parents and the justification for going in without a search warrant. It was done in five minutes and he guessed it would require a forensic interpretation unit to make sense of the scrawl. Breeze then tossed the pen back where he had found it and set about preparing himself with the real tools for the moment, cocking his guns and filling his many pockets with spare magazines and handcuffs - his brown Willie Jones suit was a plain-clothed police officer's heaven for its quality and breadth of pockets.

With a final glance around him to confirm the streets were still clear, he left the Ford behind. The warehouse did not get any prettier on approach. Rusted galvanized steel roofing, splintering fibre glass wall panels and cobwebs for curtains, if the criminals had already departed through a rear door, the greatest dangers remaining would likely be asbestos and redback spiders. His gut feeling, however, told him they had not left. The smart play was to wait for backup, and he was sure Furn was moving faster than he had intimated on the phone - or, at least, trying to. But he reminded himself of the Mosquito Principle which stipulated that common crooks were at their most sluggish just after they had acquired their target. Weighed down, their desperado thirst suddenly quenched, they frequently developed fatal cases of lethargy and complacency.

In this case, one guy walking up to the front door with hands in pockets wouldn't ring alarm bells, wouldn't register as a police raid - that's if they weren't too preoccupied with their haul of explosives to even keep a look out. He reached the door unmolested. There was nothing to see through the opaque glass and no noises to be heard. Breeze tried the handle on the off chance the door wasn't locked. There was no give, so he pulled out his Heckler and Koch and blew it open.

'Police!" he cried as he entered, but the voices deep within the darkened corridors beyond the small foyer did a much better job at announcing his presence: 'Raid! It's the cops!'

Gun trained dead ahead, Breeze edged across the foyer, a glass case filled with model cars in the centre, and comfortable-looking blue cushioned chairs lined on either side; lush, drooping pot-plants lined the walls on bronze stands. A three quarters full glass of water lay on the reception desk. There was a surprising normality about it all, and, in case it wasn't a facade, he would have to be more discerning about where he pointed his gun.

Through the left of two doorways there was all the scuffling of startled rats. The temptation to put a round through the wall was intense - to let them know he could do more than just open doors. He'd shoot high in case anyone was bound up. But not too high: the average villain could expect to lose a couple of inches off the top. The alternative, a blind turn in an exposed doorway, was less appealing. He edged that way, all the more cautious now that the scurrying had abruptly stopped.

Suddenly a silver canister flew through it, clanging across the floor.Then another and another. The doorway had proven even more dangerous than he had anticipated. One canister rolled right up to Breeze's feet. What was being emitted from the nibs at the end of each tube? Pepper gas? Tear gas? Some kind of nerve agent? It would only be seconds before he found out the hard way: it would be in his eyes and air passages. The pain would surely be excruciating.

Breeze pulled out a plastic evidence bag from one of the more obscure pockets in his jacket and put it over his head. He used an accompanying elastic band to seal it at his neck.It was the kind of gas mask that would only be effective a few minutes. But gunfights were not like cancer. Either you lived or you died. There was no such thing as remission.

Breeze swung into the corridor, coming face to face with one of his marks. The man had been waiting, gas mask on, for a scream to initiate a charge into the foyer, to finish off the intruder with his Smith and Wesson revolver. His fatal error was not being prepared for another contingency. The only way Breeze could have missed the shot was if he was holding his gun around the wrong way. The bullet entered centre-forehead, sending a scarlet red splatter into the gas mask, not quite concealing the eyes as they went dead within. The Smith and Wesson had not even begun to aim.

Breeze kept moving forward, hoping to catch any other guns similarly off-guard. He ignored the smaller depositories to the sides, assuming the gang would not squeeze in there with their explosives - and besides, he was not counting to ten and the gang were not playing hide and seek. It was the Mosquito Principle through and through. The gang hampered by the weight of their score would be swatted mid-flight.

The passageway opened up to the extensive warehouse proper. Rows and rows of plastic wrapped jackets and blouses hung on long metal racks. It left little doubt the warehouse itself was legitimate. A gang could diversify in terms of prostitution and racketeering, but the pilfering of both ordinance and female apparel was too great a stretch.

At thirty three years of age, Breeze was still nimble enough to put into effect what he had picked up in the advanced small-arms combat class he did twice yearly down at the Academy. He lunged through the doorway in a forward roll, drawing his attention to the opposition firing positions with minimal risk of catching anything short of a shotgun spray. The firing here anyway was so misdirected that the shooters' own toes were in danger.

Breeze used his free hand to stabilize a low firing position and put three rounds into the closest shooter's chest. The man went flying back into a rack, the plastic wrap sparing the garments from the grotesque bloody smears. Breeze doubted there would be much left of the man's heart let alone a pulse. It did occur to him, however, that there was someone in the midst of all this that he was supposed to be taking alive. He needed to stop shooting and start handcuffing. He ripped the evidence bag off his head.

'Guns down!' he shouted. 'Guns down!'

A rear exit door frantically opened and closed. Breeze was happily able to ignore it, his eyes gripping onto a short pony-tailed man standing flat-footed, clinging onto a black duffel bag - it seemed he had his man and the explosives in the one convenient spot.

'What are you doing, Babar?' he asked. 'Did Rufus Ray train you up as a human detonator? He's got a good eye for talent.'

Another sharp probing glance around the warehouse for signs of stragglers or counter-attack and he extracted his handcuffs.

'Never fear, your father will be able to afford your bail just as easily as he did your expensive education. Put that bag down and put your hands behind your head. And don't try anything stupid - a body shot would be too risky with all those explosives.'

'Risky?' The pony-tailed man, known on the streets as Skunk on account of his fondness for all this garlic, grinned sourly, stretching out a ring of pimples around his mouth. 'If a particularly important Free Trade Agreement won't get signed unless a certain police officer is fucked for life, do you think your employers will hesitate? My education is completely wrapped up in money, that's true.' He issued a deranged chortle. 'If you like, think of yourself as one of my tutors. A good one. I'll pay you for today's lesson and class is dismissed.'

Breeze wiped the sweat from his forehead. 'You're confusing your occupations. The guy you pay exorbitant fees to dodge a charge is your lawyer.' He rushed forward and punched the mouth closed. 'And that'll be something to break the ice with.'

2

The crime scene was inundated. The Criminal Investigations Bureau, the Office for Police Integrity, the Special Operations Group, the Bomb Disposal Squad, the County Coroner. They hadn't been half as interested in Breeze's welfare as they were in the mess he had created.

Breeze was leaning back against the metal pedestrian barricades that were leftovers from the brick factory demolition siteHe was rehydrating himself with soft drink in preparation for the urine sample that would accompany the blood sample. The crooks had done him a big favour in that department. Using noxious gases against him would help him beat the rap for any substances that were to turn up in his system.

'May I join you?'

No one in the various police departments would be so polite, especially with a rogue cop who had just blown away two members of the community without so much as a search warrant. Breeze was expecting journalists and defense lawyers to be in thick supply, so the realisation it was the A-Z demolition man Jock McClean was relatively pleasant. The big man's cheeks were puffed and his eyes were bloodshot. Owning a Porsche that required excavating would do that to anybody. He gripped the barrier the way Rottweilers held a bone.

'I've just finished writing out my statement and the gist of what I put down was that only someone completely insane would risk eating a demolition site to extract live explosives and the fact the building didn't fall straight was proof enough they had the wherewithal to pull it off. The authorities won't tell me yet how much explosive they've recovered from the warehouse but I'd suspect it was a few kilograms of persuasion for whatever project it was intended. Robbery, assassination, terrorism, do you know which?'

Breeze finished off his Coke and put the bottle on the ground. He doubted this man was involved in the scheme but anything was possible.

'If I was aware of the target there would arguably be less justification for storming a private premise and taking out perps.'

The hard edge in his voice was not lost on McClean.

'Don't worry, I'm on your side. A-Z Demolitions is my life and there is no doubt you saved it today. Thanks to your efforts, instead of a public relations disaster, our company will be linked to a pretty neat piece of justice.'

'It's nice you feel that way. There won't be anyone else around here putting my work in a positive light.'

'Well, I owe you.'

The tone of voice compelled Breeze to harden his gaze at the big man. 'Take it easy,' he warned. 'The last guy that offered me money found himself with quite a case of indigestion.'

McClean shrugged unconcerned. 'Money isn't my business. If you're needing firecrackers for your nephew's birthday or something with a bit more pop then be sure to come and see me.'

'You serious?'

McClean had a business card ready to hand over. 'A-Z Demolitions Inc. Operations Director. In case you've got any more questions.'

Breeze felt the card go into his hand but kept his eyes on the man. McClean stepped away, turning his attention to his mobile phone.

Taking his opportunity to slip in unnoticed from the side was a man who had made a career of doing just that. Senior Detective Greenstreet of the CIB. Ten years of homicide investigation had left him with a severe case of facial subsidence. There were pits under his eyes and his cheeks were hollow. Thanks, however, to his well-stocked local twenty four hour supermarket, his hair had never been blonder. His grey eyes, keen seekers of betrayed truths, were pouring over Breeze quite independently of his slow, rasping voice.

'Killing, in my experience, is like anything else: the better the reason the better the job. You've left a splatter-house in there.'

'Were you expecting a mural?' Breeze scoffed.

Greenstreet double blinked. 'We would have got Babar quietly. Some fathers are best not embarrassed by their sons.'

'The son had a bomb.'

'And that would have earned a whole lot of gratitude. But I suppose the Rogue Intercept Police is a unit for cops who don't understand discretion. The Foreign Affairs Department will no doubt have one of its satellites trained on you right now. Do you think there's a future in it?'

'Looks like I've arrived just in time,' came a loud voice from the side. 'The only back up you'll ever need, Breeze, is in dealing with the creeps snooping around a crime scene.'

Detective Sergeant Jeff Maroon, also known as Furnace - or Furn for short - effortlessly swung over the barricade.Tall, muscular, light green eyes, dark black hair and a dimpled chin, Furn had modeled in two police calendars and was almost unique in the Victorian Police Force for having both law enforcement and criminal profiles down at HQ. He had broken too many laws in what had become one of the state's most productive anti-narcotics operations and the only way to keep him on the force was to reassign him to a unit that was so close to dismissal that his critics could hardly notice the difference. But that was the early days of the Rogue Intercept Police, and now it had grown stronger, and he was relatively protected within it. Senior Detective Greenstreet, for one, found it unbearable.

'You should show some gratitude for your fellow cops who didn't arrest you when they had the chance,' Greenstreet snapped.

'Get in my face and I'll give you another opportunity.'

The seasoned homicide detective scarcely had another emotion left to play: 'You aren't interested in promotions but what about living?' was all Greenstreet could muster as he left with a disapproving shake of the head.

Furn watched him go and joined Breeze further along the barricade. 'I'm sure he was happy back in the day.'

'The day being when he was cuddling up to a teddy bear rather than a two-timing wife,' murmured Breeze. 'Still, he doesn't seem to think anyone else should pay a price for being on the force. He's a good man, in a way.'

'Interesting observation. I'm sure deep down they're all pretty thrilled you took out some fat cat diplomat's son and friends.'

Breeze turned hotly. 'And talking of that, you left me hanging with a whole gang to take out. They tried to gas me.'

'Sorry about that. May was spooked. She was convinced someone followed her home. She's had her problems with stalkers before.'

'You?'

Furn chuckled. 'You'd need to give me your definition first and we don't have time for that. Our boss is already on a flight back from Canberra and he wants us to meet him as soon as possible. Seems like his lunch with the Prime Minister wasn't purely social.'

'You're kidding me? I just drank a litre of coke to water down the positive results I'm bound to give in my piss test. And they'll want a litre of blood to confirm them.'

Furn drew his pistol halfway out its holster. 'Give the dogs a bone?'

'Very funny.' The tone in Breeze's voice was as defensive as it was ever going to get and Furn read into it.

'We can hold them off for a day or so with our official business,' he said, 'but are you going to pass even then?'

Breeze shrugged non-committedly. 'I smoke up from time to time. Just to let them know they can kick me off the force whenever they feel like it. Unfortunately, the results always come back clean.'

'You must be doing something right.'

'Are we meeting Riley at the airport?'

Furn smirked. He didn't mind changing the subject so long as it was for a better one. 'They're flying Prime Ministerial Airways. He'll be back in Melbourne before we even reach the car.'

'The office then?'

'The Alfred Hospital,' said Furn dourly. 'It seems cops like us do die, after all.'

3

'In the old days having so many wires attached to my arm meant someone was trying to get at my secrets. A lie detector test. Even the KGB had a go. And I've still got a few left – secrets, I mean. But no one's looking for them anymore. Just as well because there isn't space on my arm for any more wires.'

The voice hadn't changed one bit. In fact, if the lights were off that voice could have been a time machine back to the days when he was the hardest man on the force and that intimidating growl had branded itself into psyches on both sides of the law. But now there was no more heat on the prod. Sergeant Antonio Bolizia, his hardness forged by thirty years on the city's toughest beats, was now just a shadow of his former self. No matter what fluids and medicines were being pumped into his body through that web of tubes, they were not filling the hole created by that invisible, tumorous drain through which his brawn, identity, essence were being lost. But now, to the surprise of his black-suited, forty-something bedside visitor, he found a new way to express himself: he smiled.

'I can still keep a secret,' he said. 'Do you still have room in your book - the Red Line Files?'

'There is always room for your kind of secrets but the doctor has made me promise not to get you excited,' replied the visitor, handling his own voice with the care of a live weapon. It was Riley, the head of the Rogue Intercept Police. He was a fit looking man of average height and bronzed skin - a lithe body shaped by his passion for ocean swimming. It had shaped his calm disposition as well, for he swam in cold waters and had learnt to persevere in the face of currents. 'But when you're feeling a bit better, I won't let you off so easily. You've always been the best cop in the business.'

'Thanks, but I'd prefer it if you referred to me in the past tense. It seems like I had better get used to it.'

'You're doing okay.'

'Yeah?' Bolizia looked from one side of his bed to the other. 'Good luck trying to sugar coat this. But at least there are no regrets. If I had my time over again I wouldn't do anything differently – except there was that bullet I think I would have preferred to dodge.'

This was Riley's third visit to the Alfred Hospital's Cancer Unit in the past month and it was like playing Chinese Boxes with his friend's skeleton, each time another layer of life seemingly being removed. It occurred to him as he stood there that cops were guaranteed their own private hospital rooms and prison cells and generally to die alone as well. That was the life. Despite the best efforts of Internal Affairs and those lie detector tests, Bolizia had at least managed to dodge the cell.

This room had a view of the Melbourne skyline that Bolizia could be wheeled over to on his better days. The clearest views, however, were in his dreams: probably too biographical to qualify as nightmares. They might have explained why the nurses were unusually nervous whenever they entered: relationships, after all, had ended due to the shouting in his sleep.

'Think we made the city any cleaner, Riley?' Bolizia murmured calmly now.

'Cities are the same as rooms,' replied Riley. 'If people live in them, they're going to get dirty.'

'Three million of the wrong kind of people and they start getting filthy.'

'And you've had such a filthy career.'

'Some of the old timers have been dropping in. They tell me you've finally got yourself a bona fide departmental blind spot.'

Riley wasn't thrilled to hear he had been thrown in as fuel on the gossip campfire though obviously a dying cop was clearly not going to be appeasedwith the weekly sports roundup.

'I've found a niche,' he admitted.

'A niche? That's all you're going to give me?'

Riley shrugged.

Bolizia shot out a look as stiff as the grey pillow propping up his head. 'Someone in my condition isn't getting no last meal, last request or Heaven forbid a last cigarette. The best I can hope for is a last confidence. That would mean something.'

Riley puckered out a sigh. A sports update really wasn't going to do it.

'Well, it seems if you up the education requirements of your recruits eventually you're left with a zoo of political animals. That's what our police force has become.'

'Tell me about it,' said Bolizia sardonically.

'A lot of cases were getting mishandled or simply ignored because of their politically or socially sensitive nature. Every cop these days wants to make detective or at least a retirement pension. Drug-heads, sure take em' down. Pedophiles are like the candy they give the kids. But you get a high ranking diplomat's son off the rails and no one is going to touch him. Not the way it needs to be done. So, the top brass came to me with the idea of creating a unit devoted to these kinds of cases. I was flattered even though the brass may have been implying I didn't have a career worth saving.'

Bolizia licked his dry lips with an even drier tongue. 'There was a time we wouldn't have needed a unit like that. They called us police pigs because of our fondness for the mud.'

'We're a magnified version of that. The Red Line Files has found a home.'

'The Rogue Intercept Police? Well, congratulations. I'm sure you're going to exploit it to the full.'

Envy in a man wracked by cancer was not particularly hard to come by but in his highly esteemed mentor grimly uplifting. Standing over him, Riley felt as though he was ready to graduate at last.

'The Red Line Files are thick with all the things the politically correct world is afraid of,' he said. 'Rich pickings.'

'Danger money to the cent.'

'Yes, you're probably right.'

'And you've got some people willing to call that a career path?'

'I've got some people who don't know the meaning of the idea.'

'That's what I was getting at.'

'You can meet them if you'd like. I've summoned them here for a briefing. We've got a job sanctioned by the Prime Minister himself. A real stinker.'

'Killing two birds with one stone – efficient as always. Where are you meeting them?'

'On the roof.'

Bolizia tilted his head tiredly towards the window and said with a haunted look, 'Thanks for the offer but I've had my time and I'm struggling with the realisation that the people who benefit most from cops are the ones who have nothing much to do with us, including family members.'

Riley's phone began to vibrate in his pocket; he snapped it open and scrutinised the number. 'They're here now. I've got to go.'

Bolizia, however, had already left, withdrawing through the shadowy doorway of his medicated memories. Riley put a hand gently on his shoulder and walked out the room.

4

Did nurses wear perfume or was it just antiseptic? It might even have been Breeze's cologne bouncing off her and actually smelling good for a change: he was nestling in so close, he was almost wearing her like cologne. But, with her alluring presence and the flirty look she had given him, it was easy enough for Furn to understand why.

The nurse had thick lips and a long angular nose. Her eyes were dark and intense. She gestured to the high numbers the elevator was rising into.

'This is a change. I usually only escort police officers downstairs - to the morgue.'

Breeze had two trusted props in his pursuit of amorous exploits, his badge and his winning smile. On this occasion he was relying on the latter.

'We're not only interested in dead bodies.'

'That's good to hear. My specialty is with the living.'

The elevator hit the top floor and Furn was the first out; and for a moment he wondered if he would be the only one. Breeze followed finally, farewelling the nurse with a sly grin.

'So that's how you deal with your post-traumatic stress?' Furn murmured under his breath. 'I'd like to meet your therapist.'

'Why? He doesn't look like here,' Breeze replied as the elevator doors closed.

Furn looked around the dark corridor they found themselves in. 'Talking about morgues, this place doesn't feel too different.'

'Well, let's get to the roof. That's where the boss is.'

They walked down a dark passageway lined with unmarked doors, one of which was jutting open with all the stacked chairs jutting against it. Obviously hospitals didn't do penthouses. Up a short flight of stairs and through a metal door: Riley couldn't have missed hearing them the way the hinges creaked and the bottom dragged along the spongy surface of the rooftop; he remained unmoved, however, hands on hips near the edge, peering out over the bay that was wistfully slipping into dusk.

'You've got a problem with foyers?' queried Furn.

Riley slowly turned round. 'Sometimes when a chapter in life is finished, I like to go up onto a rooftop. Then, if I can't leave all the shit up there, I know it's time to go down the hard way.'

'Now that's some cheap therapy,' said Breeze. 'And doesn't involve any bothersome talking. It's perhaps something I could try myself.'

'Who are you kidding?' snapped Furn. 'For you a roof is just a sniper's position.'

'Not that you were shooting from such a distance this morning,' Riley added accusingly. 'I hear you cold-slabbed a couple of felons down at the Docklands. A messy business to be sure. Restraint is something more than just a seatbelt, you know?'

'Babar's gang stole some bags of blasting Semtax from a demolition site,' said Breeze. 'All seatbelts were off after that, I can promise you.'

'Well, at least you didn't shoot the wrong person,' said Riley. 'That means you're still in. Both of you. And there's a job that needs doing. Today I was briefed by the Prime Minister himself over a tasty garden salad – though lunch should have been something heavier for the job he was giving us. '

'Yes?' murmured Breeze. 'I haven't been this interested since the elevator ride up here.'

'You'd better take this seriously,' said Riley.'The nature of our unit entails dealing with well-connected politicians, and yet experience tells me the higher up you go, the more exposed you get.'

'I'll take my chances,' said Furn. 'No one stepped in dog shit climbing Everest.'

'In this case we've been given, it'll be blowing in the wind,' said Riley. 'Ever heard of the Sapiens?'

'The species?'

Riley frowned and stepped away from the edge. 'One of us is in danger of going over the railing. Anyway, I'll get to them later. The case revolves around a certain Dr Gustav Dokomad. Like all brilliant doctors, he's dying of something else. But he is quite valued. Indeed, at the bequest of the military, he's been designated a PONI.'

'If I'm not mistaken,' said Breeze, 'That stands for Persons Of National Importance.'

'Yes, at least one of you is hitting targets today. Dr Dokomad is a Grade 1 PONI, which basically means he must be kept alive at all cost. Don't ask me why. The military keep their secrets better than we do.'

'But they don't have what it takes to keep him alive?' said Breeze. 'Is that what this is about?'

'The medical procedure that is going to save Dokomad's life requires his brother to be a donor. His brother just happens to be a Grade 2 drop out: and I'm not talking about PONI now, I'm talking about high school. Starting to get the picture?'

'You want the brother brought in?' said Furn. 'That's it, right?'

'But he's on the run with some bikie gang called the Sapiens?' added Breeze.

'That's just a graze wound,' said Riley. 'Not a bikie gang. I fear much worse. Sapiens stands for Severe Alternative Punishment Independent Enforcement Network.'

'A much nastier acronym,' said Furn. 'Vigilante?'

'Imagine the Freemasons minus the weird ceremonies and with a whole lot of violence. A self-interest group. Doctors, lawyers, politicians, business executives. A whole lot of interests and sensibilities they'll do virtually anything to defend. This is the profile we have but they have never been officially investigated or even acknowledged as existing. Nevertheless, they're the reason the Prime Minister has passed the job onto us.'

'The brother is one of them?'

'Apparently so. An enforcer. And, if you go after him, the Sapiens are liable to think you're going after all of them. That would make life interesting.'

'There's not enough brotherly love that you couldn't just put it out there that the doc needs a lifesaving operation?' queried Furn.

'It's not a blood transfusion we're talking about. The only practitioner with the moral and medical fortitude to carry out the procedure has been flown out from retirement in Thailand and refuses to stay a moment longer than November sixteen. That gives you two weeks.'

The two RIP detective sergeants nodded their heads, liking the sound of the challenge.

'There's no time for the usual departmental procrastinations or over-planning and we're the only unit unlikely to show either in the face of the Sapiens.'

'Yeah, we'll get your guy,' said Furn, 'even if we have to shoot a few doctors and judges to get him.'

'It's unlikely they will get that close,' said Riley. 'They outsource their enforcers. Just like Wragg. And they're discreet about it. Nothing has come back to them. Whoever they are.'

'What makes you think the brother is mixed up with them?'

'Educated guess. It's the Criminal Investigations Bureau that's already tried to pick him up that got the education firsthand.'

'What happened?'

'The two officers involved are not dead. They merely demanded a two week leave of absence with no questions asked. Sounds like the Sapiens got to them - scared them big time.'

'Run out of town,' said Furn with a smirk.

'Can we talk to them?' said Breeze.

'You mean ask them some questions?' Riley shook his head. 'Forget it. You're not going to strong-arm a couple of cops.'

'What about the Thai specialist. Sounds interesting. Can we talk with him?'

'He's Dutch. And that's not going to happen either. Military Intelligence has got him securely tucked away. The brother is all you're getting, so you might as well start asking about him.'

'You got any intelligence on him.'

'A former dental technician and various odd jobs and one or two addictions. Now a suspected Sapien assassin. No fixed address and current location unknown. And don't go roughing up his family looking for leads. We've got them under surveillance and that's as far as that'll go.' Riley handed Breeze a manila folder from under his arm. 'From the Red Line Files. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like a moment alone with your partner.'

Breeze nodded and glanced at Furn. 'See you down stairs.'

Riley watched Breeze's departure from the roof before giving Furn a hard look. 'Regret is a funny thing,' he murmured. 'You never know what's going to bring on the feeling until it's too late.'

'If you're talking about Babar's arrest,' Furn firmly replied, 'I would have made that warehouse.'

'Well, with Breeze's successful exploits, the question will likely never be asked, not by anyone officially, at any rate.'

'So, that's why we're here – being unofficial?'

'Cops get so caught up in trying to get inside their suspects' heads, they start to miss things in themselves – things that should be glaringly obvious. I mean, hell, we don't even look into the mirror to shave. Tell me I'm wrong.' Riley pulled out a slip of paper. It had been sitting at the top of his pocket, like the life insurance salesman's business card.

'What's that?' asked Furn.

'I'll tell you what it isn't,' said Riley. 'It isn't a free pass to revenge. And it isn't an invitation for two to Monogamy's Hall of Fame.

Furn took it and opened it to an address: #309 142 Glenferrie Road, East Malvern. Furn didn't know it but the extravagant handwriting was familiar enough. He buried it deep into a pocket the way he did his boxer shorts into his washing machine and silently marched off.

'Another thing it definitely isn't, is my blessing of your match made in heaven,' Riley called out, just in case Furn was planning on taking the by-pass home.

5

When she was in Melbourne, Detective Azu Nashy of the Australian Federal Police usually stayed with her aunt, Anne Prose. It was a quiet verging on dull experience, but she was not with Furn anymore.

The Prose house was double storeyed with four bedrooms and ensuites and still hadn't been big enough to keep wife and husband out of each other's hair. It was only during the messy divorce that it became apparent each had actually been paying any kind of attention to the other – but it came in the form of accusations. Still, Prose did not regret her choice of man: the fact that he had preferred boats to houses clearly swayed the settlement in her favour.

'Hi Furn,' she said, answering the front door in a red cotton dressing gown which betrayed her recent paunch - retribution for cancelling her yoga lessons?

'How have you been, Anne?'

'Can't complain. It's good to see you again. Azu's upstrairs. The house rules are still the same. All weapons at the door.'

Furn placed his piece in the designated shoe box, surprised by the two pistols, flick blade and knuckle-dusters and capsicum spray already there.

'Does she have company?'

'No, but I don't envy whoever she is expecting.' Prose smirked, lines of unabsorbed facial cream showing up on her glistening cheeks. 'Azu didn't say much when you guys broke up. The only discernible difference was this box got fuller.'

'It's part of a wider trend. Automatic weapons are replacing diamonds as a girl's best friend.'

'Not this one.' Prose pointed a thumb at herself. 'I've just been baking cupcakes. Want to try one?'

'Not off duty,' Furn murmured.

'Her new boyfriend is already leaving meatballs in the fridge. Not bad since he lives in Canberra. Might be his way of marking territory. Has it home delivered from the local butcher.'

Furn flicked off a parting wave as he stepped past her and headed upstairs. The carpet was ghost white and received as much shampoo and treatment as a pandered poodle. The paintings along the staircase began with a print of Monet's Impression Sunrise and then were followed by a series of Prose's art school attempts of recreating it. The first couple was shaky while those done during the divorce period were murderous; by the top of the stairs, however, they were bordering on the serene. They left Furn with only a couple of metres of blank wall space to Nashy's door.

His knock brought her out into the passageway, though from a different room. Her hair was dripping, a white towel draped around her superbly athletic body. She had chosen the upper floor's furthest bathroom and she worked her audience, hips swinging, boobs jutting outwards like feelers. Even with her contacts out she knew what Furn's eyes were doing.

'Hello Furn,' she said. 'It's interesting to see that Aunt Anne still lets you in. I'll have to talk to her about that.'

She stopped in front of him and with a second towel she had been carrying, she began squeezing out water from her hair. Her hair was the colour of wet brown sugar and it combined breathtakingly with her large opal eyes. Furn remembered the old routine, how she would sit naked on her wooden stool and painstakingly blow dry it to perfection. It had taken a girl the quality of May to get that image out of his head – but now there was this address in his hand. And each pen stroke was like the lash of a whip.

'This is your hand writing,' he said.

Azu Nashy enjoyed the wisp of desperation in his voice. 'Normally I'm on the sisters' side but I've been appointed the permanent liaison between the Federal Police and the RIP. Makes it easier for us to borrow you when we don't like the smell of something. That's why I got to join in on the fun in Canberra today. I think the PM was on the verge of making a pass at me. Not that I'd blame him. There's not much else to do up there apart from screwing the country.'

Furn held the address up higher, wanting Nashy's monologue to get around to it.

'A perk of the job,' Azu said. 'Good cops can recognise the self-destructive streaks in their suspects. In this case I'll enjoy recognising it in my colleague.'

'I didn't cheat on you.'

'That's true. You made love to me and then you didn't make love to me. Are you flattered that's all it took to make me want you dead?' She was standing with hands on hips like her towel was made of Kevlar.

'I'm going to treat this address like I did our fling,' said Furn flippantly. 'Maybe I'll go there and maybe I won't go there.'

'You'll go there.'

'Why so confident?'

'Because, colleague, it's part of that streak.'

Furn turned for the stairs. 'Maybe I just prefer women who keep heels in their shoe boxes.'

'That's not it,' Azu called out as he disappeared down the stairs.

Furn purposefully left his piece in the box, not merely to in some way spite her. He sensed in the situation ahead it would be the safest place for it.

*

The feelings of romantic bliss had quickly dissipated away and the wily veteran of domestic chaos returned in their place.

At 8pm the peak hour traffic was still sticking around like taxes, slowing Furn to well below the speed limit. Finally, however, he reached his destination, or at least close enough to it - the RIP may not have had much of a reputation in law enforcement circles, but it did provide carte blanche when it came to parking. He pulled to the side of the road to be next to a fire hydrant, under a No Parking sign, but most importantly with a good view of 142 Glenferrie Road. The tooting horns of blocked cars and the bitter taste of the bourbon in his hip-flask would combine to keep him awake for a long stretch of the night.

Fortunately, however, it wasn't long before his mobile was ringing with May Jones's number on the display.

Furn snapped the phone open. 'Hi.'

'When are you coming home?' came May's sweetly beguiling voice.

'Not till late, darling. I'm on a stake out.'

'That's too bad. How late are you expecting to be?'

'It might be an overnighter, depending on events. Are you home already?'

'Yes, I am.'

'Any sign of that stalker?'

'No.'

'That's good. Well, don't wait up.'

'I miss you.'

'I miss you too. Now make sure the doors are locked.'

'I will.'

Furn was tempted to reveal that her new-found stalker was likely in fact an unhinged co-worker of his. His vantage point, however, was too good to throw away without giving Azu Nashy's suspicions a chance to play out, so he kept it to himself.

'Ok. Good night,' May said with a yawn and hung up.

With some kind of reaction to the call that had been, Furn found himself calling up his horoscope: the raunchy tone of the voice at the other end of the line, however, gave him pause to wonder if he had not in fact called a sex line by mistake – the numbers of all these services were so similar. Still, it was therapeutic to hear an unfamiliar voice. The woman talked about life changes coming from unexpected sources and Jupiter having something to do with it. There could have been some truth to it. It certainly wasn't the aesthetic value of the run down, russet brick apartment block that had attracted Nashy's interest here: single bedroom, kitchen and sink accommodation frequented by students and those who had not studied a single thing. Probably every second balcony was being used to dry out weed rather than laundry. The lights were bright in apartment 309, the thick curtains not betraying so much as a silhouette. Thanks to a central court layout he was at least going to get a view of the front door when it opened. Hopefully it would reveal one of May's handful of single-mother friends and he could clear his head and set his focus for the scientist and the medically useful brother.

The horoscope done, he tuned into the talkback radio and listened to some old gruff voice complaining about rising crime rates. "Where are all the police these days?" he bemoaned, and Furn smirked ruefully: 'Drinking warm whiskey,' he murmured back at the radio and took a gulp from the hipflask.

At least one thing May was not going to put him through tonight was a long wait: her metallic green Ford Fairlane pulled into the 142 driveway and reverse parked into the vacant #309 spot. The familiarity with these actions was plain to see.

Her long, shapely legs led her out of the car. She strode up the stairs under the bright courtyard lights. There was sheen indicative of her wearing the full complement of her bedside box of cosmetics. The biggest horn honk so far blared up Furn's exhaust pipe. It was a fortuitous demonstration of May's tunnel vision, for she didn't give it the slightest glance. Furn wasn't taking any more of this. He rushed out of his car, almost losing his door to the SUV tearing around him. He manufactured a break in traffic, getting across Glenferrie Road just as #309's front was opening for May.

With a flirtatious flick of her thick ginger hair May stood her ground a moment. There was a man's silhouette in the doorway, too dark to be recognised from the street. But his large hand came into the light as it wrapped itself around May's backside. Instead of chopping it off at the wrist, as Furn would have approved of, she let it be, merely adjusting the strap of her glittering black handbag on her shoulder. The hand slowly submerged into the back pocket of her blue jeans and with a surge of strength hauled her into the apartment. The door snapped closed behind them.

Furn was inexplicably calm as he walked that way. Perhaps it was the sudden sense of danger, helping this to seem as professional as it was personal. One left hand had been enough for that.

Furn took position in front of the spy hole, ignoring the fact it might prove a close cousin to a sniper's telescopic sight; the apartment wasn't particularly modern in the first place but it aged another ten years with the doorbell's tired rendition of ding dong.

The apartment's occupants were apparently not yet settled, the door opening quickly. The man behind it was a two metre giant with a black beard and a serpent tattoo that was being squeezed up his neck by a tightly stretched black t-shirt. He was wearing Oakley sports sunglasses and a gold necklace engraved with "Johnny". His stringy hair had been oiled into poor-man dreadlocks.

'Detective Sergeant Maroon,' he said with a Greek Australian accent, 'this is a surprise.'

'Not to me, Condrey,' Furn returned. 'There aren't a lot of players around missing the ring finger of their left hand.'

Condrey laughed and held up his left hand, the ring finger gone from below the knuckle. 'Can't get married, can I? No place to put the ring. Did you know it was bitten off in a fight? A strong jaw that kept the finger but lost its teeth. Now what can I do for you? I didn't order takeaway.'

Furn's smile resembled two strips of meat frying on a hotplate. 'You're on parole, aren't you? So you mustn't be carrying a weapon. But if by some chance you are, you'll be going straight back in the slammer. Either way I couldn't be feeling safer.'

He had pressed the right button to bring a little uncertainty to Condrey, probably because there was an unregistered firearm tucked into the back of his belt at that very moment.

'Now don't get the wrong idea,' Condrey said. 'I wasn't stealing your girl.'

'Well, the right idea couldn't be too right. You'd better explain.'

The Condrey confessional grin, last seen during the armed robbery interrogation, was making reappearance. 'She's my girl. I sent her to you while I was doing time.'

'Why would you do that?'

'Better it to be with an enemy than a so called friend.' Condrey shrugged. 'The man with power knows what others really want and then orders them to do it. May was watching you when you testified at my trial. So, while the jury was waiting to convict me, I was already appointing myself social director for the world that would carry on without me.'

Furn's eyes darkened.'The last time I kicked your ass it was merely professionalism.'

Condrey took a step back, holding out a cautionary hand. 'I may be violating my parole in my back pocket and I may not, but I wouldn't recommend you go to the pains of finding out. Taking out the guy who's taken out your girlfriend wouldn't look good.'

'I see. And what about a reason that's actually going to stop me?'

'The big difference between cops and robbers is that cops figure out the answers before they start shooting. You start shooting now and I guarantee you there will be ricochets.'

'I have zero idea what you're talking about. You couldn't just point out that you're a big son of a bitch and my own paper-weight is in another ex's shoebox.'

'Paper-weight?'

'Yeah. Once I blow off some scum's head all I get is paperwork. So, that's how my piece gets used most of the time. Seems like that's what's going to happen again.'

Furn slapped aside the buffering hand. 'Another difference between cops and robbers is that cops are cold blooded, even when it's a crime of passion.'

'Was that your problem with May?'

Such a big guy, there were so many places to put a punch. Furn chose the tip of his nose. There was no one in a gym working out his nose and this one seemed to be packed with tomato sauce.

Condrey stood his ground. He rummaged inside his pocket for a plug.

'Not so cold blooded after all.'

Furn headed back down the stairs. 'I'm not much of a cop.'

6

After his frequent breakups, the handle of his Honda sports car was an effective guide to his state of mind. Sometimes the engine was purring so smoothly he could swear it had been completely reconditioned. And sometimes there was the drag of a hundred thousand kilometres of gluggy unchanged oil. This time the tyres just felt a bit splashy. But it was still early days.

When Furn entered bars he usually always scouted out the college-type bar tenders. At least then his tips would probably be going towards an education. His own education had come on the wrong end of the bottle.

The Black Gate, on tree-lined Gillon Street, was within walking distance of his modest East Balaclava house. He had adopted it as his regular because it didn't attract any one kind of people and always had bar tenders worth tipping. Furn entered, realising it was a quiet night even for a quiet night of the week. The bar-top was clean and dry enough for her to plant her elbows as she watched the back corner TV. She was mid-twenties with school teacher glasses; smooth, creamy complexion; brown hair bunned to a vacuum; and a white and green Greenpeace t-shirt – just in case you couldn't think of anything better to talk to her about.

'You're studying to be a teacher, right?' said Furn as he arrived at the row of brass taps. 'Twenty years too late to be the school crush I should have had.'

'You wouldn't make much of a detective,' she said removing her elbows from the bar.

Furn flashed his badge. It only seemed to shave another couple of degrees off those analytical eyes.

'What'll you have?' she asked.

He ordered a Victorian Bitter out of word association. The bartender poured it into a pint glass.

'Are you going to set me straight about what you do?' said Furn.

'Occupational nursing. Fourth year student at Monash University.'

She over poured, dabbed the glass dry, and slid it across. Assured hands well suited to the eggshell that was the human body.

'Do you like your job?' she asked.

'Cops and bartenders work in unison, keeping scum off the streets.' He handed over a mango-coloured fifty dollar note.'Our bribes probably beat your tips.'

'You kidding?'

'I might be underestimating your looks.'

She counted out his change from the till. She put it down next to the beer and pointed to a distant corner. 'You'll be more comfortable over there.'

'Did I say something wrong?'

She shook her head. 'Tuesday nights the ballroom dancing crowd comes in. Better to get as far away from them as possible. And wiping down your table every few minutes will give me respite from the painful flirtations of anyone who couldn't at least get his partner this far.'

'Tell me your name and I'll undertake to keep my table as beer soaked as possible.'

'For that service you might even score my number. My name's Jalice.'

Furn took the recommended position in time to avoid the flood of dancers who seemed to assume the judges had followed them into the Black Gate and would be handing out points on everything from smile sincerity to alluring hair flicks. All that got, however, was Furn, whose dislike was fuelling an already healthy thirst. By the end of the night Jalice was beginning to form the same opinion as the ballroom dancers: that he was a back corner drunk whose voice could find an echo in space.

It was 1am and the day had been kept out of the refrigerator way too long. Furn swayed upright and cajoled his sea legs to the lavatory only to be bumped aside by a man whose shirt seemed to be made of May's bright pink toilet paper of choice. Grappling with his anger, Furn did an about face. He would settle for the car that looked like his.

'Tuesdays and Thursdays,' Jalice called out as he marched out the bar.

Too early for the bakers the streets were running cold. There was a Volvo parked out front. A ballroom dancer would drive that. Furn luxuriously relieved himself on it door. It helped that it was the same metallic green as May's. What he hadn't checked was if the engine was running. He felt a gun press against the back of his head.

'I'm going to let you finish. Just don't panic.' The voice was coolly matter of fact, professional.

'Don't go to any trouble on my account,' Furn replied.

'I don't even let myself get near shit or piss when it's in the diapers of my two little girls.'

'Take five steps back and I promise you'll be even safer.'

'How about I count to five and if your noodle ain't tucked away I'll shoot it off?'

'I'm a cop.'

'That's why I'm surprised you've got a dick at all. Still, I can see why I'm going to need to take careful aim.'

'Reach into my pocket and you won't find a wallet with money in it, 'cause it's all been spent, but what you will find is a police badge. That's the trouble you're in.' Furn tried to be convincing as he said it, though he didn't get the impression the gunman felt in any kind of trouble - the gun was just too steady, the voice too calm. At least Furn didn't sense a bullet was coming. The gunman seemed to be a professional, but he was not taking his work particularly seriously. It felt more akin to a prostitute being paid to snuggle up.

'I can see where all the money went,' said the gunman. 'That's one wet door.'

'Is it your car?'

'Oh, it's mine, alright. Just as you're mine. I have a skeleton key, you see. This thing pressed up against your head. Say you're prayers because I'm about to show you how it works.'

Furn had had enough of being taunted and spun sharply, seeking to knock the gun away. He didn't get very far, however, before a vicious pain struck him between the shoulder blades and a thick icy black engulfed him.

*

Awakening from a medicated sleep was a feeling Furn knew well enough, having suffered many an injury in what a department shrink had described in his file as "a pathological unwillingness to show discretion." He tried to shake his head clear, albeit softly, for if there was pain lurking about he did not want to risk waking it too. Still, he was more comfortable than he might have expected. Sunshine was warming his tightly fixed eyelids and he was lying on a cushioned bed. He would have been glad to remain in that spot all day if not for the memory of the previous night. There had been that gun to his head and that chilling voice accompanying it. What had happened next he was not sure. An injection of propofol, a blast of sevoflurane? – whatever it may have been, the gunman had certainly been efficient in its delivery. Furn told himself to quit stalling and open his eyes. Like a maiden voyage, he wished he had a bottle of champagne to smash across the bow.

His eyelids moved with reasonable ease and as soon as he was able to focus he realised he had never started a day quite like this. He was curled up in the backseat of his car with a dead red kangaroo inexplicably wedged up against him. The car was stationary and his arm was numb with the weight of the kangaroo upon it. The unfortunate animal was cold, still and of a distinctly gamey odor.

When a cigarette promised to be a breath of fresh air, it was time to take one. The psychologists had got him down to a pack a year, though he hadn't really smoked until he started seeing them. There was a pack of Marlboros in the glove box, which took some clambering to reach. Once he had a cigarette lit, he filled his lungs with smoke and that matched well with what was going on in his head. He wondered if there were friends who would do this as a practical joke. He noticed a pink ribbon around the kangaroo's neck. Yeah, he knew a few people who might do that. And there would be not much he could do about it: in this line of work there was about as much chance of choosing your friends as there was your family.

Furn got out of the car and puffed some more on his cigarette. In his vicinity there was an old man walking a proud looking Dalmatian and a mother marching her brood off to the local primary school.A pleasantly typical scene and Furn wondered where he fitted in amongst it all. In the end, all he could come up with was getting back in the car with his cigarette and that kangaroo. He knew May would take the smell of cigarette he brought with him as an indication she had gotten to him, but, in reality, she would have to share credit for his fast emerging headache with a luscious bartender, a gaggle of annoying ballroom dancers and the kind of tranquilizer that gave race horses a good night's rest. The car engine was not so encumbered and fired straight away. Furn slipped it into first and noted that the clock on the dashboard read: 8:46. The drive to the County Morgue was brisk, which in peak hour traffic probably meant he was doing something illegal. He parked in a reserved spot, wrapped the kangaroo in a blanket usually used for under-body maintenance and headed into the morgue; he was cheered by the thought the coffee there was usually pretty strong and bitter.

The Melbourne City Morgue had undergone a complete refurbishment the previous summer, and the only thing that distinguished its entry from the average hospital was the lack of in-patients and the absence of stethoscopes. The hallways were peach yellow and the polished floors dark grey. Furn ignored the mounted brass plates pointing here and then. With a large, deceased marsupial under his arm, people were going to notice him. Unsurprisingly, it was at first a couple of security guards; they still managed to take his badge seriously and fetched Dr Dong Dang an Assistant Coroner and one of the select few pathologists who didn't possess a dourness to resemble his clients.

'Is that a damned kangaroo?' he asked. 'What the hell are you bringing it here for?'

'Why do you think?' Furn replied. 'It's dead.'

'Well, I'm not a vet and I'm not in the meat pie business either.'

'This isn't some road kill victim that's been hopping around looking for sympathy. It could be a crime victim.'

'You're serious?'

Furn unceremoniously dumped the kangaroo upon a nearby steel trolley. 'Pathologists don't do referrals, right? I don't need the RSPCA and I don't need a taxidermist. Run some blood tests; find out if the cause of death is in anyway malicious. It's to do with an important case.'

'Kangaroos don't die in drive-by shootings, you know. It's called hunting.'

Furn was starting to feel queasy. Whether or not the deliciously bitter Coroner's blend would help or harm remained to be seen.

'This is an official police request,' said Furn. 'We are the Rogue Intercept Police and we move in particular circles.' He headed for the staff canteen. 'Trust you've got an assistant to help you move it into the lab.'

'Yeah, I've got an emu and a dingo outback,' Dr Dang snapped with his Vietnamese accent momentarily strengthening as his voice quickened. 'My morning's already taken up with you guys. You're making so many deposits you must think I'm the laundromat, right?'

Furn figured he was referring to the Dockland's run-in. He didn't have the heart to tell him there would likely be more where that came from. The Sapiens weren't an offshoot of any pacifist society. If dead kangaroos were how they began acquaintanceships, he had to wonder how they ended.

7

The balding psychologist propped his elbows on the glass-topped desk, allowing himself a moment to survey the colourful fish on his tie and launched into a gaping yawning, resembling a whale set to swallow them.

'Sorry,' he said, 'but you do insist on these sessions being early.'

'I humour you while my heart rate is at its slowest,' Breeze murmured. He took his pulse at the wrist. 'But it seems you've already wrecked that.' He settled back into his grapefruit purple sofa chair and sighed. 'You mightn't do much for a guy's head but his butt gets pretty comfortable while you're doing it.'

'Thank you. The purple is intended to bring out your inner child.'

'If this kind of chair was around in my childhood I might have sat down more.'

'Would that have helped?'

'I don't think any of my dozen or so scars were the result of sitting down.'

'No, I daresay they are more likely the result of reckless behavior such as bursting into a warehouse full of gunmen without backup and with an evidence bag over your head. Anyway, bragging is a defense mechanism and we need to move beyond that.' The psychologist, Dr Frank Matera, removed a pen from the breast pocket of his khaki business shirt and started clicking around with it, possibly wishing he was the kind of doctor who could unload his patients with a prescription. 'I understand well enough you are only here because it has been set as a condition of your remaining on the force, very much like your partner Furn before you, but if you are not willing to take the process seriously, I will be forced to state as much in my assessment report.'

'I don't think the negative report of a psychologist will get me kicked out of the RIP,' said Breeze, 'because that was what helped me get the job in the first place. And besides, it would certainly be dangerous for me to cooperate with you.'

'Dangerous?'

'Breaking down the things holding you together can get pretty ugly on the other side.'

'Not if you have things to replace them.'

Breeze stood up and scooped up his brown suede jacket from the back of his chair. 'You mean replace the power, the guns, the cheap existence, the easy relationships which become like buffering tyres on a speedway?'

'You don't consider those things ugly?'

Breeze smirked. 'I have to go. So, just tick that box, will you?' He left the room with its desktop clock still dolling out his time, left the psychologist with his Client Progress Report to scrawl in.

From the psychologist's practice it was a short drive into the city. Breeze parked his bright orange Renault in a No Parking zone and put up onto the windscreen the yellow and green disabled parking sticker, which foot patrol cops and clamp-happy parking inspectors would know meant undercover law enforcement. He crossed St Kilda Road, the traffic crammed upon it as impotent bystanders. Police Headquarters' entrance was quiet, the day's strategies being hatched in deep burrows. People or no people, Breeze was used to passing through the corridors in silence. It wasn't the kind of workplace where you were swamped in greetings.

The uniform division's briefing room smelt of new carpet and closed windows. Apparently the sit-at-the-back types didn't make it through the Academy these days, the room ready to flip head over heels with all the weight at the front.

'We've accepted the need to slowly wean our African friends off the idea their wars have followed them here,' the Watch Commander, Senior Sergeant Inverloch was saying. 'But some of you seem to be taking slowly in a geological sense. What I want to see is the Fitzroy Gardens clean enough to have a picnic, even after midnight. If your wet sponge is not working then use some wire wool.' Although his unkempt ginger hair may have indeed resembled wire wool, his uniform was immaculately neat and he was standing proud and tall, his shoes glistening with a parade polish.

The uncharacteristically wandering eyes of his charges alerted him to Breeze's presence in the doorway to the side.

'Detective Sergeant Burres, what brings you here?' he called out.

'Well, I so rarely see the uniformed branch these days,' Breeze replied with a hard edge, 'even when I call for backup.' He strode to Inverloch's side. 'But just to show you there are no hard feelings, I'm going to offer up the confessions the shrinks have been trying to dig out of me. Growing up in the West Parisian slums with a gangster for a father and a violent temper that had run up a lot of branches in my family tree, I was making your African gangs here look like candy boy scouts. I was getting too hard to handle, even for the likes of my father. And he responded by dumping me at Charles De Gaul Airport on my twenty first birthday, bluntly telling me that unless it was with a bullet hole for a passport, I was never to return. With the passing years I have become a cop and my father has become an even more infamous gangster. But what has really changed is now I have a son of my own; he is being raised by his mother in a small village in the Bourdea, and I might be willing to take that bullet to see him again.' A heavy silence hung over the briefing room. Breeze took it like an egomaniac would applause. 'So, here's a friendly piece of advice,' he continued. 'From now on, whether I'm calling for backup or not, you'd best stay out of my way.'

He marched out of the briefing room feeling light and refreshed like he supposed therapy was supposed to feel. He did realise, however, that he had put himself in the same building as his office and, with a new case to deal with, he couldn't really justify staying away from it. He headed for the elevators, starting to feel a weight again. Missing person cases usually weren't of particular interest unless the subjects had gotten themselves missing in a casino or somewhere warm. He doubted a Person Of National Importance would be any different and it would come with timeframes that were bound to be unrealistic. And then there were the Sapiens. Torturous vigilantes or just the tag of an unhinged graffitist? He had the nasty suspicion he would have to find out before the case was over.

The modest RIP office was down a passageway and through a door simply marked Detective Inspector Riley. The lack of periphery staff, namely personal assistants and cleaners, had usually been more apparent. Currently, on Riley's expansive L-shaped Antiguan imported desk there was not so much as the usual roughly-handled Financial Review newspaper. Breeze was able to loiter in this doorway a lot longer without getting noticed than he had in the briefing room. It was a promising indication that the two occupants at the desk were focused on something noteworthy. And why not? Riley was afforded not only a top of the range executive desk but also a significant say in what went on top of it. Currently, there were two laptops displaying the same pallid, bald headed man: cold grey eyes and wire, thin lips bent in a disturbingly callous smirk; it was the kind of face that could a elicit a guilty verdict out of a jury before the case was even heard.

Breeze dropped into the remaining unoccupied chair, the deep leather cushion a very comfortable landing.

'Happened to be in the neighborhood,' he said.

'You're brave,' replied Azu Nashy, the Federal Police detective who was sitting beside Riley at the desk, raising her eyebrows at Breeze, 'coming into the station after yesterday's incident. You're slated for so many blood tests you're likely to become anemic.'

Breeze gestured to the man on the screen. 'There are more important tests to be had than blood tests.'

'His name is Barry Jewel,' said Riley. 'He's a high school mathematics teacher cum armed robber. His only interest to us is the calling card left behind at his crime scene.' He took off his reading glasses. 'The only crime scene where we've had a calling card and a conviction to go with it.'

'Calling card?' murmured Breeze. 'The Sapiens?'

'Sapiens,' replied Nashy, dryly. She picked up a bunch of evidence bags from a cardboard box on the floor at her feet, each containing a single white calling card. 'We've picked up a dozen from different crime scenes and they're never the same hand writing.'

'Do they have contact details on the back?'

'No,' snapped Riley impatiently. 'Forget the blood tests. Addresses are what I want. You're going over to City Correctional to get them.'

'Sure. And if we're lucky your friend Jewel will fill us in on the Sapien's next town hall meeting.'

'We've got eleven cold cases, one closed case and not much time,' said Riley impatiently. 'Just get your head in there and start sniffing.'

'We're still compiling the list of people we're going to let you shake down,' added Nashy. 'Be at South Bank at eleven.'

'Wragg's the name of the wayward brother,' added Riley. 'To the best of my knowledge we're going to need him alive. Not exactly your strength, is it? Did you see Dr Matera?'

Breeze nodded half-heartedly.'I go deeper when I cut myself shaving.'

'Didn't shoot him at least?'

'Left my gun in the car.'

'Your partner was last seen handing a dead kangaroo to the Assistant Coroner. I've put a message on his phone to meet you at the penitentiary. If you've picked up any useful mind tricks from your therapy you might be advised to put them to good use.' He reached into the desk's green velvet lined central drawer, extracting an A3 manila folder. He slid it across the desk. 'The case file. Read it before you start beating Jewel with it.'

'Stuck up a Saint George's Credit Society,' Nashy chimed in. 'A real insider's job. We got him on an anonymous tip. Could be he had a falling out with the Sapiens. The money has not yet been recovered either. He may have been double crossed. You could try leveraging him with that.'

Breeze scooped up the folder. 'Until we get something more specific we need to cover as much territory as possible. So, give me the Sapien angle and Furn can go after known associates.'

'No splitting up this time,' returned Riley, adamantly. 'Don't forget how promptly your predecessors dropped out of the picture. I know your preferred method of communication with partners is Christmas cards but on this one I want you watching each other's back from the outset.'

Breeze pulled a face. 'What's with the dead kangaroo?'

'That's a question. Normally I'd be inclined to pin Furn's badge on a healthier kangaroo and watch it hop away into the sunset. But these cases give me moment to pause.' He waved his hand at the two laptops. 'Nothing as tame as armed robbery.It appears Severe Alternative Punishment is just the mouthful way of saying torture. So we can't discard or discount anything.' He sighed heavily. 'Some adults never grow out of their thumb-sucking. For others, it's skinning the neighbourhood pets.'

'Well, I'm on my way to a barbecue lunch. I'll be happy to take the leftovers of the kangaroo off the coroner's hands.' Breeze was not big on such formalities as hellos and goodbyes, so when he turned for the door Nashy reacted in haste.

'Give this to Furn when you see him, will you?' she said, holding out a brown paper bag.

'Play lunch?' Breeze took the bag and peeked inside. It was a black Heckler and Koch, partly wrapped in a white handkerchief. He closed the bag up again. 'I'll pass it on.' He gazed into Nashy's large brown eyes, looking for clues as to why there was a gun in a paper bag. But there was nothing specific, just a faint hint of desperation.

8

In his fresh charcoal grey suit and with an uncharacteristically close shave, Furn did not much look like he had woken up with a dead kangaroo. The man he was eyeing off on the other side of the metal table, however, looked every bit like he had woken up with the worst kind of nightmares, the kind had in prison. It was Barry Jewel, decked out in the Port Phillip Correctional Facility's dull grey prison issue jump suit. He had bloodshot eyes and a thick salt and pepper stubble and he looked a good ten years older than the thirty years his file credited him with.

Breeze was watching them both as he leaned back against the grilled window of the prison's interview room. He took his seat next to Furn, who was only now bothering to give the case file a cursory look over.

'Don't you wash?' snapped Breeze at Jewel, wincing at the body odor emanating from across the table. 'What is it, prison showers don't appeal to you?'

Jewel shrugged indifferently. 'When you've got all the time in the world it's amazing how hard it is to find the time to do anything.'

Furn slapped down the case file. 'Cooperate with us and we could offer you a little less of that.'

'You offering me a reduced sentence?'murmured Jewel, eyeing him carefully. 'The judge already gave me that just for looking sad.'

'The judge noted that it was highly unlikely you were acting alone in the armed robbery of the Saint George's Credit Society. He was being kind about that too. I'd say a guy with your brains would struggle even to open a bank account by himself.'

'Most of the five hundred large has never been recovered,' added Breeze. 'I bet the partner who turned you in has polished your share up into a very nice shiny nest egg.'

'You were a history teacher at Jordanville Secondary College?' said Furn, leaning over the table. 'I'd send a dog there if I wanted it to learn how to take a dump in the street.'

Jewel screwed up his face. 'Which one of you is supposed to be playing the good cop?'

'A hole in the ground? Is that where you think the loot has been deposited?' said Furn. 'Maybe that's where your loyal partners will deposit you.'

'What partners?'

'Wragg Dokomad. That's your get-out-o- jail-free pass.'

'I'd be glad to tell you all I know about him. All you've got to do first is prove I actually know him.'

'Was it his handwriting on the Sapien calling card?' said Breeze.

'Fuck yourselves.'

Both Breeze and Furn sprung out of their chairs, punching Jewel to the ground and kicking into him. Jewel rolled up into a ball, emitting a peculiar donkey sound.

Furn stopped and looked at Breeze. 'I thought you were going to hold me back.'

'Ditto,' replied Breeze.' He produced one of his Victoria Police cards and dropped it onto Jewel. 'Here's another calling card for your collection. I'd be calling us if I were you. The Sapiens aren't the only ones you wouldn't categorise as nice.'

Furn pressed the attendant buzzer, promptly eliciting the same burly, ginger-haired guard that had shown them in.

'Where's my boy?' the guard snapped, admirably prompt in noting the altered scene.

Furn pushed past him. 'I think he's crawled under the table.'

'We don't man-handle the inmates here.'

'That so?' said Breeze, taking on the reply with Furn already out the room. 'Are we supposed to wipe our feet too?'

He caught up to Furn along the drab grey corridor leading to the first of a long series of checkpoints that kept inmates from the car park.

'I get the feeling that visit is going to cause more problems than it solves.'

'I used to beat my brother up more than that and he still loves me,' said Furn, dismissively. 'Anyway, if Jewel kicks up a fuss we'll shut him up with a hushed early release. Something tells me the quicker we can get him on the outside the quicker we can find out precisely why he deserves to be in here.'

'I half follow you. Were you thinking of that before you laid into him?'

'Were you?'

Breeze winked mysteriously. 'Just as I'm about to hurt someone my head empties itself of everything bar the moment itself. It's actually quite peaceful.'

'So, you hit him to clear your head?'

'Probably not, but my head is clear.'

Furn flashed his badge into the checkpoint camera. The heavy steel door slowly opened. Furn rubbed the badge affectionately on his shirt sleeve before re-pocketing it. 'So long as it can get me out of a dump like this that's all the shine I need.'

*

Furn had rarely encountered a road beyond the vast tracts of the outback where the traffic moved to his liking; nonetheless, he had managed the return trip to Melbourne with speed enough to keep him content. He parallel parked in between a couple of garbage cans in a narrow side-alley and in the end he and Breeze were only a few minutes late to the eleven o'clock South Bank rendezvous with Azu Nashy. Nashy was facing the city from Maxine Cafe's second floor balcony in the Southgate complex. On the glass table top was a lipstick marked latte, a leather satchel bag and a torn-out crossword page. The tables around them were empty, set ready for the impending commando-like lunch hour raids of the hungry workers from the myriad of office buildings in the vicinity.

Nashy had already set an extra chair on the other side of her table.

Breeze was walking ahead and chose the one directly opposite her. 'How's the coffee?'

'I'm trying to give it up, so don't ask me to praise it. Did you get anything out of Barry Jewel?'

Breeze hooked an arm over the back of the chair thus also beating Furn to his favourite pose. 'A guy like that doesn't just walk into a bank and start making all the right moves. I think the good teacher went to his own special kind of school, had his own unique instruction.'

Nashy frowned, unimpressed.'Anything else?'

'Yeah, I think Furn hit him first.'

Furn snatched up the menu from between the salt and pepper shakers and opened it up to the lunch offers. 'I only hit him because he wasn't telling us anything good. We need him out on the streets. Maybe he'll lead us to the Sapiens – if we're really lucky, maybe to Wragg Dokomad himself.'

Nashy was down to the last sip of latte and sought to accentuate it with a loud sigh of appreciation. 'You want Jewel back on the streets?' she murmured on the other side of it. 'On what grounds? Five years off his sentence for good behavior? That would require the tidiest cell in the whole system.'

'No, we just act nervous when he starts barking lawsuits about police brutality.'

'So, now you're going to tell me beating him up was a conscious strategy?'

'That's right. All part of the job.'

'Well, I'll see what I can do.' Nashy slipped on her silver Gucci sunglasses - her own portable two-way mirrors. 'Your predecessors to this case, the Criminal Investigations cops who took a leave of absence on the grounds of being scared shitless...as far as we know the only person they questioned was Jewel. And they didn't get very far with him at all. Not after the Sapiens found out who they were.'

'But Riley is hoping we attract the same kind of attention?' said Furn. 'He's setting us up.'

'He didn't think you'd mind,' replied Nashy unapologetically. 'Rogue Intercept, after all, is the name of your business.'

'You'd better give us the names of our perturbed predecessors in the case,' said Breeze. 'Perhaps, we can be wiser for their experience.'

Nashy took a moment to consider the request before replying, 'Officers Pinter and Wershakov.'

Furn turned to Breeze. 'Do you know them?'

'Yeah, sure,' said Breeze. 'They're good drinkers. We've had a few sessions down at the Geebung Hotel. Their idea of an exotic vacation would be to try the imported beers.'

The waiter came over with a polite voice and a disinterested look. He wrote down Furn's order of capellini pasta served on a base of Mexican green chilies and lightly grilled barramundi and a bottle of white wine and departed with a glance at Nashy's cleavage exposed from her loosely buttoned green cotton blouse.

'Not hungry?' Furn asked, not accepting Breeze's dismissive shake of head as readily as the waiter had done.

'They don't have protein on the menu,' murmured Breeze.

Nashy extracted a blown up passport photo from the satchel bag. 'The man you're looking for: Wragg Dokomad.'

Breeze slid the photo to his side of the table. The face he was looking down at was menacing: brooding dark eyes, a bony jaw and spiky black hair that resembled sea-urchin spines. A former dental technician now suspected of involvement in a dangerous underground movement; a world class scientist for a brother, who was now somehow dependent on him for survival - the photo was unsettling without being particularly informative about any of that.

'You can see if they positively identify him, but I daresay the most likely outcome from a visit to Pinter and Wershakov would be a dint in their supply of beer, or, if they're not being so hospitable, another lawsuit.' Nashy reached deeper into her bag. 'And we'll see how the Barry Jewel angle plays out too. But there isn't much time, so Riley has asked me to look for another.' She extracted a brown manila envelope and slapped it down on the table. 'Ever heard of the basketballer Clancy Catlett? Plays for the Melbourne Tigers.'

Breeze shook his head. 'I'm only interested in the NBA. What about him?'

'He got beaten up in his Toorak mansion three weeks back. Two perps.'

'Mansion? The local players don't live in mansions, do they?'

'I can't speak for the whole league but this one ain't no tin shed. Catlett gave us some descriptions of the attackers, and one of them matches Wragg, albeit with his physical dimensions exaggerated – perhaps, not surprising considering Catlett was getting pummeled so comprehensively at the time. DNA samples recovered from the house, however, have confirmed it was Wragg.'

The waiter returned with the capellini pasta and a wine. Nashy ordered another latte.

Furn went immediately for his fork and the pepper shaker. 'So what was taken?' he asked as he twirled up a mouthful of pasta.

'A valuable player trophy,' murmured Nashy. 'The investigating officers didn't get far on the robbery angle. The trophy itself wasn't so valuable.'

'Did Catlett receive a Sapien card?'

'It seems no. Not that the investigating cops were inquiring about such things in their first response, so who can be sure. Maybe Catlett souvenired it. But an interesting coincidence has popped up. The tattooist who did a lot of work on Catlett over the years has since turned up dead. The beating he took was interspersed with bullets. And on this occasion there was a card.'

'Sounds promising,' said Breeze. 'Any leads? A motive?'

Nashy shook her head. 'Nothing. No specks of DNA this time. And that fits the usual pattern. When the Sapiens take someone out, the only loose ends they leave behind for the cops is the task of informing the next of kin.'

Furn ate another mouthful of pasta and took the envelope. 'Is Catlett in town?'

'You'll find the number in the file. Give him a call. And don't waste time trying to solve house break-ins or murders. Find Wragg and get him to the Fairfield Military Hospital. That's all we're interested in.'

'So what is it with Dr Dokomad?' asked Breeze. 'He needs a new organ or something?'

Nashy's countenance hardened. 'The good Dr Jachom, who will be performing the operation, specialises in limb reattachment. He was more or less hounded out of Holland for questionable practices that for the best part remain confidential. Dr Gustav Dokomad is an expert in toxicology - poison development.' She smirked grimly. 'Are you beginning to see why this job has fallen onto you?'

9

If corrupt cops had better tastes it would be easier to spot them out. The nursing home style floral couches and the corner glass cabinet might have been antique or just plain old. The abstract paintings on the walls might have been investments or products from the kids' art classes. If the price tags were still hanging off them, Furn would have had a better idea as to which. As it was, the only criminal charges he could have confidently laid here was for the poor Golden Retriever puppy being decked out in a purple and green striped satin coat: surely that was a case of animal cruelty. Furn patted the puppy sympathetically. It turned quickly away, however, dragging its tongue along to the hand that fed it: Detective Sergeant Joe Pinter.

'I don't have anything you want to hear,' said Detective Sergeant Joe Pinter of the Victorian Criminal Investigation Bureau's Armed Robbery Unit, his Carlton Draught stubby held to his chest, 'but let me say I like what you boys do.'

He had a hard, box-shaped jaw and his sandy brown crew-cut sat high up on his crinkled forehead. He was sitting tensely in one of those nursing home couches, the cushions at his back pushing him forward at an uncomfortable angle.

'Thanks,' said Furn, with a beer and a couch of his own. 'Thanks a lot, but let's not change the subject 'cause you're a no good coward and that's worth talking about.'

Pinter frowned. 'What the hell?'

'You might not like the style, so it's just too bad the size fits so well.'

'You think you know me?'

'I'm only guessing. But if a cop runs from a threat he must know who made it.'

Pinter drank with a frosty smirk. 'I've got kids, a wife, a dog and a badge. Together they are my third kidney and no matter how murky and putrid things are when they go in, they get pissed out clean and pure.'

'Well, maybe it wasn't a threat at all that got you running. Maybe it was a bribe. But if the next directive involves you getting in my way, I'd recommend you join Wershakov down the coast with a fishing rod. I wouldn't want your third kidney getting overworked.'

A hot, dangerous light flickered in Pinter's eyes and then it dissipated with a smile. He gestured with the Carlton Draught. 'This stuff will fuck up the only kidneys you've got, my friend. Would you like another one?'

*

Breeze was in his Renault out front of Pinter's brown brick Footscray unit, reading up on the Catlett file with eyes scrunched up tight, as though gripping onto a monocle.

'Get anything interesting?' he asked as Furn swung into the front passenger seat.

'He's scared alright,' Furn replied. 'But I didn't take it too much further 'cause I get the feeling he is mostly scared for his family.'

Breeze tossed the Catlett file into the back seat and put on his seatbelt. 'I took two calls while you were paying your social visit.'

'Yeah?'

'What do you want first, the good news or the bad news?'

'Just give it to me and I'll tell you which is which.'

'The Assistant Coroner wants you to know that with all the cyanide pumped into your overnight car guest he no longer feels comfortable about his barbeque menu. Says he'll stick to beef.'

Furn scratched a nervous itch on his nose. 'That ain't the good news, right?'

'Not really. I was looking forward to the precedent of Dr Dong Dang eating one of his patients. The good news is Catlett has enough room around his pool for a couple of cops. We've been invited.'

He went to the ignition and the Renault purred to life. Furn had to admire that: his own car was always too busy reminding him about his seatbelt to purr. He glanced back at the Pinter's windows, hoping that a pair of shrouded eyes behind the curtains would indicate his visit had resonated longer than the slamming door. The couple of seconds it took Breeze to get the Renault moving weren't encouraging.

The car hungrily gained speed out into the traffic only to be like the dog that found the end of its leash: a red light followed by a turn onto the ever busy Dandenong Road and the momentum was lost. Furn figured Catlett's address would be closer to the city and a long way from here. He got to the radio before Breeze could cue up one of his European hip hop collections, tuning to the Parliamentary Broadcast. There was a speech in progress: the Minister for the Environment defending the Murray-Dowling River Scheme.

'You'll put me to sleep at the wheel,' said Breeze. 'You really still think that's part of your future? You do realise we're hunting one brother so that the government can sew his arms onto the other. That's my reading of this little situation and you can bet if you ran for public office it would get leaked out. The community would be horrified and you wouldn't get a vote.'

'I partially agree,' replied Furn smoothly. 'The community would be horrified. But the funny thing is people wouldn't mind it so much if they thought I was on their side - and to make sure of it, I'd get a vote or two.'

Breeze laughed. 'You're sick enough to be a politician.'

Furn chuckled too, though it quickly faded to his usual habit of concentrating on every word the Parliamentarians were uttering. It didn't come to him easily, like a foreign language, a language from above the swamps.

Although it was true enough money did not grow on trees, it was evident enough in the inner suburb of Kew what kind of trees could grow on money. Lush, lavish gardens immaculately tendered, and seemingly deserving the fences that kept them separate from the harsh reality of the city beyond. Breeze pulled into the roadside by a towering white-washed wall, and immediately turned off the engine and radio.

'Perhaps, by the time you're ready to stop being a cop you won't be in much of a state to do anything else,' he said.

'I'll be fine,' said Furn. 'But a politician needs a public name. I'm still working on mine, though I get the feeling this case will help.'

18 Ceremony Crescent, Kew. The gold-plated street number was undersized on the tall white brick wall – the second-to-bottom line of an eye-test. There was an intercom beside the arched driveway gate. Furn pressed down on its luminous green button.

'Are you the two detectives?' promptly came a husky female voice over the speaker.

'That's right,' said Furn, glancing up at the surveillance camera above the gate. 'Furn and Breeze.'

'Okay. Wait a moment.' The woman's voice was slow, like she had been sleeping late.

The gate began to roll open. It was slow too. The emerging gap brought the woman into view; she was approaching from along the driveway from quite some distance away. Furn looked that way quickly, his eyes drawn to her long tanned legs in a provocatively short summer dress.

Breeze nudged him with an elbow and murmured, 'Catlett must be dribbling more off the court than he does on it.'

The woman was striding confidently, her long black hair swinging with her hips, her eyes hidden behind large sunglasses. She was skinny without imposing the finer details of her skeletal structure to the world.

By the time she had reached the gate Furn had convinced himself he was looking at just another line in a report and his eyes were back to normal.

'Would you like to see a badge?' he asked.

'No need,' she said with a trace of a smile and that familiar huskiness. 'Seen one you've seen them all.'

'Are you in the cheer squad?' Breeze asked brazenly.

'For the Melbourne Tigers?' the woman scoffed. 'No, thanks. Clance explained the rules of basketball plainly enough. He didn't do so well at explaining the appeal. Shall we talk at the pool?'

There was a sheen of lotion on her skin, and a pleasant smell of perfume. Behind her was an expansive, well-trimmed lawn leading up to a beautiful gabled house. The tinted glass implied shades of paranoia.

'Let's go,' said Breeze, although she was already on her way. He forced his eyes off her superbly formed buttocks to the open carport and garage. He knew that with careful attention such structures could give as much away about criminal activities as a medicine cabinet disease. What he saw here was a luxury CLC-Class Mercedes Benz and a lawnmower with a steering wheel.

'What's your name?' Furn asked their escort.

'Rish Jones. Call me Rish. Sorry if you find the garden barren. There used to be a wonderful rock garden but Clancy's agent had it removed. She didn't want him spraining an ankle while sleep walking - which he usually does with a bottle in hand.'

She stopped at a wire fence between the house and garage, which was perhaps the last line of defense should the invading glimpses of reality successfully breach the front wall. 'Go through. Clancy is expecting you. I'll prepare some refreshments. We have a soft drink sponsor so I hope that will do.'

She went up the porch steps, her legs offering as much of themselves as the Detective Sergeants were willing to demean themselves to get. That they didn't bump heads was the only credit they could claim. They entered through the gate, carefully closing it behind them in case they were entering some kind of wildlife preserve. Garden gnomes replaced Rish as escorts, lining the cobble stoned walkway that took them into the backyard and the rectangular swimming pool that occupied much of it.

Clancy Catlett's legs, waxed and inked, were glistening with perspiration in one of the many deck chairs around the pool. The upper half of the man was concealed under a tilted bamboo umbrella. The Detective Sergeants' elongated shadows crept in underneath it, alerting Catlett to their presence. He swung across the deck chair and pushed up the umbrella. Narrow intense eyes on a bold Nubianesque nose and with a set of lips as plush as cushions. He had the edgy look of a real talker -someone with things to say, even to police, and even if they could be used against him.

'Are you Clancy Catlett?' said Furn, flashing his badge.

'You're really asking?' he gnarled. 'Cops are supposed to be informed. It's typical everyone knows that answer but you.'

His neck was at an awkward angle, seemingly struggling to adjust from looking down at people to looking up. 'Maybe you ain't real cops at all. The bruises are healed up. The insurance has been paid out. The statements have been given. In other words, the party here is over. Nothing left to do except the washing up. You the guys that do that? Anyway, if you are the cops, there's no need to ask you to sit down 'cause cops don't sit in deck chairs.'

Breeze stepped up to the pool and patted the glassy water with his shoe heel. He followed the turquoise ripples out towards the centre of the pool. 'The good thing about this conversation is it's already finished,' he said. 'You've just told us everything we need to know.' He lifted up his leg. 'And my shoe is cleaner too.'

Catlett leaned forward as the two detective sergeants started to walk away. 'Hey, wait. What did I tell you? Don't be in such a rush. I'm the victim, right? It's only the suspects that have the right to remain silent. You didn't know I was a ballplayer and I didn't know whether you had a backbone holding you up or just that piece of tin. Now everything's smooth. Rish is getting drinks. At least stick around for that. How was she at the gate? She was a nanny when I found her, but I don't have any kids so I've been retraining her in hospitality.'

Breeze turned back with pointed indifference. 'You were a fringe on the Timberwolves before you downsized to the local league. I know something about basketball.'

Catlett held up his hands incredulously.'Take a look around. You think I ain't getting paid?'

Breeze put his hands on his hips. 'I'll tell you what I think. You got beaten up by the Sapiens and if they actually took something of value it was too valuable to tell the cops about.'

Catlett was about to speak but Breeze held out a hand to shut him up.

'You also neglected to tell the cops about the calling card they left behind. You thought you had some gang banger pals who could do a better job than the cops at exercising revenge. I'm referring to your recently deceased tattooist. Getting a tattoo must allow a lot of time for gangster storytelling. And you got a lot of tattoos. And you might have even believed half the crap he was saying. He would have been a logical choice to go to with your grievance.'

'The way he died -' added Furn, getting in on the act, 'the moment he died...you wouldn't need to be afraid of death to be afraid of that.'

'Having a murdered man's ink all over your body must be disquieting,' said Breeze.

'Yeah,' said Catlett, 'cause he hadn't finished one.' He scooped up a Pepsi from beside his deckchair and drank it like he was squeezing an orange.

'That's what I'm talking about. Your enforcer got enforced and you're still acting blasé. That tells me someone else has taken on the job. Someone with actual skills. Not a friend of yours or you would have asked him in the first place.'

'Funny, 'cause I'm telling myself if you had any skills you would've been on this job in the first place.' He was pointing at his house again. 'There's no money on interchange benches.'

'Anyone we can scratch off our suspect list in this we'll give a medallion for restraint,' murmured Furn as he marched out the backyard.

Breeze remained behind for the earnest hour with a dour look. 'We're the real thing, Clancy. Give us something to work with. There must be a reason you incurred the Sapien's wrath. You have my word the reason will remain confidential.'

Catlett screwed up his face and pushed back in the deck chair. 'If I knew that I would have solved this crime myself. I'm not letting a couple of dogs get away with breaking into my home, rendering me unconscious.'

Breeze shrugged his shoulders and started after Furn.

'Leave your card in case I think of something,' said Catlett, wanting to stretch out the moment a little further.

'It's the Sapiens leaving cards,' snapped Breeze dismissively. He increased the speed of his stride then and joined Furn back in the Renault.

Furn was in the driver's seat, his arm was out the window and he was tapping a beat on the door panel as he listened to that European hip hop. 'I like your theory about the tattooist. A good, solid cop theory. Any ideas who Catlett's new avenging angel might be?'

'I've got a fair idea. A guy working out of the Authority Exchange.'

Furn went to the ignition. 'That's not too far.'

There was a tap on the curb side window. Two iced cokes sat on a tray underneath two proud breasts in a showcasing translucent blue blouse. Breeze buzzed down his window.

'Talking with that man can be hard work,' said Rish. 'Have them to go. It'll be a cool off.'

Breeze lifted the glass off the tray. The bottoms dripped with the residue from the rush.

'Do we need to return the glasses?'

Rish leaned into the car, her sunglasses off and her personality out with a smile. 'If you don't, that would be stealing.'

10

'Smart crims are basically just cops who didn't want to take an entrance exam,' said the man. 'You still got a partner?'

Breeze nodded. 'He's in the car, making calls. He woke up this morning next to a poisoned kangaroo and it's messed with his head.'

'So, the guy you're after is an animal hater?'

'Perhaps not. The kangaroo was the only victim he didn't torture.'

Don 'Tentative' Jenkins was the man in conversation with Breeze. He grinned widely showing a wide gap at the front of his teeth and gold fillings at the back. He was the hard living manager of The Authority Exchange, a favoured watering hole for militant unions and gangs. Broken up from their previous centralised organisations by a mixture of incarceration, legislation and pension plans, the government had only succeeded in turning the clientele into shotgun pellets tearing through the community. Tentative, his nickname purely ironic, employed staff to keep the dark wood tables clean and a couple of heavier ones to keep the floors clean. One of them was standing guard outside the backroom office at this very moment. Breeze wasn't sure if it was meant for his protection or Tentative's or the giant simply didn't have a better place to stand. Out of sight would have been out of mind if only he wasn't continually bumping the door as he shifted his weight.

Tentative had a cigarette habit seemingly confined to toying with them in his long doughed-out fingers. His hair was thick, black and neatly groomed and his cheeks were choirboy soft and smooth. Still, the brooding gaze and harsh scar running along the jawline hinted at his menace. His exploits, however, existed mostly in the realm of rumour and yarns, the police file on him consisting of little more than a series of parking fines. Toying with that unlit cigarette, elbows up on a desk that had paperwork in the drawers and bottles of alcohol on top, he waited for Breeze to say something else.

'Crims tend to hang out in the same places as celebrities,' Breeze finally muttered. 'It's probably because the cops can't afford it - at least, not the straight ones. That's unless they have the good fortune of splitting the bill with someone like Jane Armitage.'

Tentative raised his eyebrows and casually flicked the fringe away from his eyes. 'The newsreader?'

'Last year she was still in radio.'

'I see. Last year she was still gettable.'

'She did an hour's worth of makeup before going into the radio station each morning, so I knew the direction she was headed.'Breeze shrugged it off. 'The point here is you and a certain recently deceased tattooist were a couple of times out in the same fancy nightspots, smooching around with singers and actors. Probably a basketball player or two as well.'

Tentative decided to light up his cigarette, after all. He did it contemplatively, the way cigarettes are lit at funerals.

'Masoo Benzona was a friend. That's an early warning before you start calling people suspects.'

'You aren't a suspect,' said Breeze levelly. 'A tattooist to the rich and famous is a hook you don't come by every day. I'm surprised you didn't take more care of him.'

'He was angling Catlett for an investment in a new tattoo studio - the man gets jumped in a home intrusion, it's only natural Benzona tried to sweeten the deal - after all, the service to be obtained was retribution.'

Breeze spared a thought for his creaking desk chair, suspecting it wouldn't take much more than a yawn to spring the joints: someone as wily as Tentative might have deliberately kept such furniture in his office in order to thwart an unscrupulous visitor's sudden lunges. More conventional methods of defense such as guns and knives were most likely hidden in the conventional places of desk drawers, bookcases and pot plants.

Ominously the grey carpet was just as worn as the chair. Crims knew better than to try shampooing blood out of carpet. You spill it, you burn it. So, you might as well buy it cheap.

'I'm glad we're on the same page,' said Breeze knowingly.

Tentative's outstretched fingers dug into the desk. 'Not until you tell me what you want we're not.'

'Benzona had a nice little card autographed by the Sapiens in his possession. He made the mistake of trying to place it. What I want you to give up is the direction he took. And while you're at it the direction you're taking. That is apart from putting a bodyguard at your door.'

Tentative considered him carefully. 'I'm going to break a long standing custom and tell a cop something real.'

'Go on.'

'Benzona found himself a customer. Some wild cop who got off every time he put a needle to her skin. Apparently the sessions never got far before she was straddling him and tooth tattooing him raw.'

'You get a name?'

'Her name was the only detail I didn't have to sit through.' Tentative plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and stabbed it into the ashtray. 'And I definitely wasn't pushing. Hot headed cops with satanic tattoos on their holy places isn't my thing.' He pulled out another cigarette and was back to playing with it. 'She cut off his dick first, then slashed his throat. That's a girl who shares her issues with others.'

'Assuming it was her.'

'Yeah, assuming it was her.'

Breeze's chair groaned as he leaned forward attentively. 'Catlett seems to think you're out for some payback. Or are you just trying to keep him close until you can think of a better way to invest his money than in a tattoo parlour?'

Tentative flicked a knowing hand and produced from the desk's top drawer a plain white card with Welcome to the Sapiens scrawled across it in thick black ink. A blood smeared fingerprint was upon it. 'I ain't about to go sniffing around cops' privates for a name. I did, by the way, try Benzona's studio and apartment for one. Unfortunately, tattooists don't come much more dyslexic than him. And that's Catlett's fingerprint before you get too excited.'

Breeze put the card into his breast pocket and the chair groaned as he sat back again.

'You're the cop in the morning paper, right?' said Tentative. 'My bodyguard likes to read the newspaper aloud so these days I'm up on current events. Well, take my word for it, the Sapiens are like ghosts: you start talking about them and rooms automatically become colder. All those little bumps and creaks will suddenly take on life or death significance.'

'You just make sure you ain't behind any of them. Ever heard of Wragg Dokomad?'

'Sounds kind of masculine. So, I doubt he was screwing Benzona. And therefore none of my business.' Tentative stood up and offered out his hand.

Breeze looked at it like he was measuring up his handcuffs but stood up and shook it anyway. He left the Authority Exchange out the kitchen and through the back way, the Health Inspector's gratuities sticking to the bottom of his shoes. Out in the back alley, he glanced at the giant bodyguard closing the door behind him. Big enough you couldn't miss - that's the sort of target Breeze preferred.

Breeze walked out of the alley and across the street. Furn seemed to have a knack, with or without dead kangaroos for company, of sleeping soundly in cars. It took some scuffed up knuckles on the window to get his eyes open. He unlocked the doors and yawned.

'Did you get anywhere?'

'We've got a suspect. A cop with an unfinished satanic tattoo.'

Furn nodded his head as if that sounded likely enough.'The tattoo comes with a name?'

'No, but apparently it comes with an interesting view.'

Breeze cajoled his cellphone out of an overprotective trouser pocket. A couple of clicks into call memory and half a dial tone later he had Riley on the line. 'We've got a lead. Best not to go into details here. But it's safe to say our lead is not going anywhere.'

'Where shall we meet?' came the reply, so animated that even Furn heard it.

'I've taken a liking to that rooftop of yours,' replied Breeze. 'Same place and time.' He snapped closed the phone.

Furn smirked. 'Is it the rooftop you like or the elevator companionship?'

'Put it this way, I'm not going to complain if you want to sleep some more in the car.'

Furn shook his head. 'Don't worry, I've got somewhere else to be. Drop me off at my car, will you?'

'You ready for that? Did it occur to you that the poor kangaroo, locked in that car with prehistoric pizza boxes and God knows what else, bit on a cyanide table to spare itself?'

Breeze over-revved the engine to shield his ears from Furn's blunt reply.

11

'As the CEO for Jaric Securities, I am well aware that the companies with the highest productivity are strongest on so many levels, and the same is true for countries and that is why engaging the unemployed and undervalued through art is, in my estimation, a tremendously worthwhile project, worthy of whatever help may be forthcoming.'

Gurjit Lane was a small woman with a strong voice and presence that had taken the Dollentry Gallery gathering in an easy hold. She was wearing a flowing black gown dress to match her hair and long silver earrings.

Furn had never met her but he knew where she had bought the dress and who had given her the earrings and even how it had turned out. She was May Jones's boss and Furn had found himself listening to all that May had had to say about her. He supposed it was a realisation that a new career might be necessary some time soon and that if he couldn't make politics, business was as close to an honest job as he could probably handle. He was standing hands in pockets at the back of the well-dressed crowd. The art had reached as far as the walls there, but, to Furn's reckoning, the theme of the exhibition might have been loony eyes, as, for every warped head put to canvas, there was a pair of hideous, ailing-kidney yellow eyes spiraling out at him. If the works were some kind of cathartic release for the tormented artists, the gallery patrons were being plied for theirs with champagne and finger food upon silver trays. Furn's glass was empty, so he scouted the crowded floor for any glimpses of silver.

'Ms Lane reads her invitations from the bottom up,' said May, pressing up against him. 'That's because "Refreshments will be served" is always closer to the bottom.' She smiled and kissed his cheek, looking radiant in a tight fitting, shiny grey suit. She was beautifully made up with a touch of glitter in her mascara and a hint of cynicism in her eyes. 'And why are you here? An admirer of art?'

'This morning I woke up next to a dead kangaroo and l immediately thought of you.'

May pushed him away. 'Should I be flattered?'

'It's true alright, but I don't think you were responsible - cyanide would be too fast acting a poison for your tastes.'

May plucked the glass out of his hand and tipped it over his head. Only a drop fell out, so she was looking for a silver tray too.

'I thought I knew who was stalking you,' said Furn, 'but now I'm afraid there might be more than one person.'

May looked at him hard. 'What are you talking about?'

'The kangaroo was dumped on me a block away from our apartment. I think it was a warning from a gang of vigilantes called the Sapiens. They are a bunch of crazies and they seem to know pretty well which cops are being sent after them.'

May shook her head. 'The Rogue Intercept Police couldn't make a girl feel safer even if she was keeping the company of a bank robber like Johnny.'

'On this occasion you might be right. Seeings we've broken up anyway, I'd suggest you keep your distance. It's just not worth the risk giving people the impression we care for each other.'

May gave up looking for a fresh glass of champagne to throw and instead slapped Furn across the cheek. At the same moment the crowd broke into enthusiastic applause as Gurjit Lane completed her speech.

The cell phone sharing space with the Heckler and Koch around Furn's armpit began to vibrate. Furn snatched it up and saw on the display that it was Breeze.

'Yeah?' he answered.

'You alright?' came Breeze's voice.

'Yeah, sure,' replied Furn, watchfully pulling away from May. 'Why wouldn't I be?'

'You went to see May, right? I figure you're probably as bad at asking for back up as you are at giving it.'

'I'm fine.' Furn paused in case there was something else coming down the line, but quickly lost patience. Silence could take care of itself. He snapped closed the phone and strode out the gallery.

*

Breeze had made the call from the Alfred Hospital rooftop. Riley was waiting for him in the same spot. It was darker and windier than the previous evening, succeeding in altering his appearance where the same black suit and blue striped tie did not. Was his face tighter too? It was always like that when he was waiting for word rather than imparting it.

'You've got a suspect?' He asked, his brown leather Tavechi briefcase was in a headlock waiting for an answer.

'You know Don "Tentative" Jenkins?' asked Breeze.

'The union thug? Yeah, I know him. He's not my image of a Sapien.'

'He's given us a tip.'

'That would be a first.'

'He wants to avenge Benzona Masoo without getting his hands dirty.'

'That doesn't sound right either.'

'Maybe it does. Masoo had a particularly nasty client. One of us.'

'A cop?'

'Apparently so.'

As Riley mulled over this, the expensive leather of his briefcase got an even greater squeeze.

'Masoo bragged about her,' Breeze added. 'Unfortunately, he left out the name.'

'And you think the murderer allowed herself to be tattooed by her victim until she finally snapped and diced him up? Sounds pretty sick.'

'Doesn't it.'

'Is Furn out looking for her?'

'I'm not sure what he's looking for. But an incomplete satanic tattoo down low on one of our sisters is unlikely. We'll need a game plan for that.'

'Azu will be the most qualified to deal with it. I'll have the military provide her with a pair of garment busters.'

'X-ray glasses?' Breeze pondered the idea. 'You'd better request a box of them. It's the only lead we've got.'

'If word gets out about it, we'll be out of a job good and proper.'

'And possibly more than that. Until the Sapiens came along I always left it to Forensics to worry about cause of death.'

Riley scratched at the lifeline on his palm like it was a scratchy ticket and made up his mind. 'We're not doctors but examining the female form in this case will qualify as a life saving measure. Be at HQ first thing in the morning.'

Breeze mollified his reaction to a simple nod of the head.

'So, you really don't know where Furn is?' asked Riley curtly.

'Working the case.'

'Case of Victorian Bitter?'

Breeze replied with a scowl, 'You want a guy around, you shouldn't follow his girlfriend.'

'I've saved Furn's neck from women more than once but I can't take the credit for this one. He wasn't followed on my instructions.'

'Azu took it upon herself? Was she following him or stalking him?'

'People talking on rooftops probably don't have all the answers. But I'll try to keep them apart until we get through this. Tell Furn to take a closer look at the Catlett girlfriend. She was the other victim in the Sapien assault. On paper she's squeaky clean, but something brought the Sapien's into their home.'

'Do you mean the nanny or the girlfriend?'

'Rish Jones. As far as I know they're one in the same.'

Breeze worried himself over which was the better way to spend a day, wandering the city's police stations with a pair of garment penetrating glasses or another interview opportunity with Rish Jones. He figured that even with X-ray glasses there would be no seeing through Rish. So, the glasses it would be. Still, he would have to be careful where he pointed them.

The brief rooftop meeting ended the same way as most conversations with Riley: an incoming call followed by a firm shake of the head to indicate it was going to take a while. Breeze was getting to know his way around the Alfred Hospital rooftop and didn't waste any time in getting off it. The elevator hadn't lost his escort's scent or warmth. Breeze mingled with it and mulled over her name: Soila Waneta - he had liked the way she said it. He had the elevator to himself to the ground floor. She was waiting for him there, and had traded her nurse uniform for black jeans and an orange Billabong t-shirt. The bunned hair was the common link between the two very different looks.

'You're off?' said Breeze keenly. 'I thought with my luck someone would have gotten themselves shot in the interim.'

Waneta smiled. 'So what do you have in mind?'

'Sushi?'

Waneta shook her head. 'That's driving well within the white lines. Way too safe.'

'What then?'

'I feel like I've been spending too much time in the emergency unit, seeing firsthand what happens to adrenalin junkies without ever experiencing why they would want to be adrenalin junkies in the first place.'

Breeze had rarely seen eyes so zestful and fresh in a profession where blood was a by-product. He liked the challenge he could see in them. He went to his phone and made some calls and twenty five minutes later they were tearing through the sky a hundred metres over the city.

Rick Lanton was the regular RIP flyer and one of the few outsiders in law enforcement who did not betray a wariness or contempt in their company. He considered himself a people's person only because people were a lot nicer once he got them up in the air. Military cropped black hair and chestnut yellow eyes that only begrudgingly stayed out of sunglasses at night, Lanton glanced back at the dashing police officer and fetching blonde in the rear seats and for the first time felt more like a limousine driver than a helicopter pilot for the Victorian Police Force.

'Is this where you want to be?' he said to Breeze through the headset.

'Yes, it is,' Breeze replied. 'Take me out from the site in a slow circle. This is a reconnoiter mission.'

'You got it.'

Reconnoitering a blonde might have been closer to the truth. The RIP, however, got their authority from higher than Lanton could fly, so he kept this notion to himself. And though he lacked the authority to take his own woman up in the air, her mere existence made landing feel a lot more bearable than it might otherwise be.

Breeze was starting to wonder if Waneta had been on a helicopter ride before. She certainly wasn't clasping her knees in excitement.

He disconnected Lanton from the conversation and said to Waneta, 'Down there is the Fairfield Military Hospital. A lot of their work is strictly confidential. Nurses, however, must swap a few stories about the place.'

Waneta pressed against the window and, as she peered down, murmured, 'Last week there was a head on collision on that corner that kept the emergency unit busy all night. One of the passenger's arms was ripped from the shoulder.'

Breeze eyed her carefully. 'Mind a personal question?'

Waneta pulled her gaze back into the cockpit. 'That depends. Will I take it personally?'

'Why did you become a nurse?'

'It wasn't because I am the Florence Nightingale type. When you've worked the trauma unit a while, you'll know you're the strongest person in the room. Not just because the other sod had been torn open by a bullet, a blade or a bumper bar. It's your unflappable resoluteness. The quiet fascination of seeing million years of evolution in bloody exposé.'

'Sounds like you'd be happier doing autopsies.'

'Sometimes that's about all we're doing, with the final whispers of life for small talk.'

Breeze shook his head with a frown.

Waneta leaned into him. 'Thanks for the ride. It's been fun. You were right for suggesting sushi. I like my food raw. Where did you have in mind?'

Breeze glanced at his watch. 'It'll have to be another time. I've got to do a blood test back at HQ.'

Waneta pushed back in her seat. 'Most guys wait till after before worrying about blood tests.'

She was vivacious and carefree, but seemed to revel in giving the impression she would happily roll out a picnic blanket at a blood spattered crime scene. Breeze tried to refocus on the streets around the Fairfield Military Hospital. He wanted to picture tearing up to them with a shackled Dokomad in the back seat and the mysterious Dr Jachom waiting at the front entrance. First, however, it would require some skilled driving through the image of Waneta rolling out that blanket.

12

Furn answered the phone expectantly. It was Wednesday morning and he was cross-crossing inner city streets, trying to determine if he was being followed. The seedier and darker, the better, daring an ambush, though possibly all he needed for that was to go home.

'Detective Sergeant Maroon, it's Rish, Rish Jones.'

'My friends call me Furn.'

'So you don't get to hear it often then?'

Furn chuckled. 'Not as often as I'd like.'

'Well, if you're planning to subpoena me, Detective Furn, it better come with breakfast included. You know a place?'

'I'm not usually in any state to eat breakfast.' Furn did not add that today was no exception.

'Out of compassion for a policeman's salary meet me at the Theodore Roosevelt Cafe. That's next door to the place I usually go.'

'When?'

'Maybe you don't have breakfast but you must at least know it comes before lunch.'

'I'll have you for insulting a police officer.'

'The offense you're thinking of is assaulting a police officer and you won't have to worry about that so long as you keep to your side of the scrambled eggs.'

The line went dead. Furn tossed away his convenience store coffee, watched it splatter across the cracked pavement. He didn't feel bad about it - he was in an alley where it would fit right in. And now he'd have something to order at the Theodore. He retraced his steps between South Yarra High School and its neighbouring brothels. At South Yarra Station he took a taxi and was reunited with his car. The fare told him he had walked too far.

The Theodore Roosevelt Cafe was on bustling Brunswick Street, where gold laced menus rubbed shoulders with those chalked in on blackboards. The Theodore's blackboard said there was a special on bottomless cup refills.

Furn had eight of the ten tartan tables to choose from. He took a centre one and gave the other two occupied tables a long hard look as though wanting to clear them out as well. On one table a cuddly young couple was sharing a loving plate of bacon and eggs. At the other a depleted middle aged businessman was savouring the victory of successfully compensating anything else he might have sacrificed with a coffee and a newspaper. The two poles of non-platonic relationships Furn cynically concluded.

The two waitresses on duty wore light blue pharmacy-style uniforms. They were both tall and lanky. Furn ordered a black coffee, extra hot, and took off his dark blue jacket to get more comfortable.

Rish came in before its arrival. She wore a loose white cotton shirt, black trousers and black heels. It looked like she had dressed for whatever it was she planned to do for the rest of the day.

His waitress escorted her to the table with the kind of smile that tip seeking didn't bring out. It suggested she was a more frequent visitor than she had let on.

Rish's reciprocating smile did not linger long in the presence of Furn.

'So tell me, am I a suspect in my own assault?'

'It's nothing like that,' Furn said, admiring a peek of flat stomach as she sat down. 'We appreciate that you were much more forthcoming in your statement than the other aggrieved party. Having said that your statement indicates you were with Catlett the entire day leading up to the home break-in and assault. And apparently this was the only noteworthy change in Catlett's routine.'

'First dates aren't a crime in any country that stocks lipstick.'

The waitress returned with two cups of coffee. The way she eased Furn's onto the table indicated it was just as hot as he wanted it.

'The cow's still in the fridge if you change your mind,' she said, putting down Rish's.

'No need to disturb it,' Rish replied.

The waitress left for the textbook she had been working with behind the counter.

Furn sought to put a dent in Rish's stare. 'If I wait for the outside temperature to match your eyes' it'll require a change of season.'

'The initial call by Senior Detective Rory Wikkens implied I had something to fear. This is as close to fear as you're going to get.'

'That's just the way he is. But it's the reason I've never missed an office Christmas Party. We are simply interested in identifying Catlett's connection with the Sapiens, however unintentional it might be. He has a few shady friends. The shadiest of them is now lying under the shade of a tombstone. It came after your assault and we think it's owing to his going after the Sapiens. Furn slurped his coffee painfully.

Rish had not even looked at hers. 'You are more concerned with Catlett's assault than you are Masoo's murder. 'Cause only one does a good autograph?'

'What if it wasn't Catlett that drew the Sapien's ire at all? There was that other victim in the house at the time.'

'So I am a suspect. You just didn't know what of. Is it time to invite a lawyer to pull up a chair?'

'Lawyers slurp louder than I do.' Furn took another noisy sip. 'At the moment all I'm asking is you run through your movements with Catlett on the day leading up to the incident. Catlett might merely have shoved the wrong guy out the way.'

'Believe me he was on his best behaviour. I spent the day introducing him to some of my friends.'

'Want to tell me about it?'

Despite her shaking head Rish's voice dramatically softened. 'It would be much easier if I just showed you. I haven't got anything else to do today. Is that what you would call cooperation?'

Furn felt a twinge of excitement with the realisation this might have been what she had dressed for after all.

'If you keep calling me Furn it will be.'

'Clancy required more persuading.' Rish gestured to the fairy emblazoned wall clock. 'If we're going to start with the beginning we have to go now.'

Furn slapped down ten dollars next to his untouched coffee. 'Let's go.'

'You drive. That's the only time a man keeps his hands to himself.'

Furn neither declined nor disagreed. A woman so seamlessly put together would have aroused all sorts of impulses in all sorts of men. He stepped with her out the Theodore Roosevelt and into a day he had not experienced since his time at Melbourne University, before, with a badge egging him on, he had taken to associating with the wrong kind of woman. A morning workout of Body Combat at the Albert Park Women's Sport Salon, where Furn's badge proved almost as useful as at the Port Philip's Correctional Facility. Then an olive oil drenched lunch at Jane's By the Bay overlooking St Kilda beach. A stroll along the sand before a coffee at the Esplanade. From there it was off to the Men's Gallery where Rish danced the early shift on the stage's centre pole, the place where she had first met Catlett.

This was more like what Furn was used to. She looked great over a glass of Jack Daniels. Furn was in a great position to hook her g-string up with some currency, but as they shared a smile he sensed they were past that stage of a relationship.

*

'Satisfied, Detective?'

It was 9pm and the car was back in idle outside the Theodore Roosevelt. Rish's eyes were still bright and her cheeks flushed from the excitement and exertion of the performance.

'It all seemed pretty harmless,' said Furn. 'Did Catlett behave himself as much as me?'

Rish shrugged her shoulders. 'Yes and no.'

'Go on.'

'You don't get why I took him to all those places. Guys wait till they've bedded a girl before introducing her to their friends. Girls introduce him first, just to see if he tries to bed them as too.'

'He didn't fare too well?'

Rish shook her head.

'How did I do?' Furn asked.

'You didn't take your eyes off me.'

He gave all his suspects that kind of scrutiny: it seemed a worthwhile point to make until he found Rish's lips all over him. He was much happier to return that than a smart remark. Her lips were the softest thing he had ever known. A very nice place to land if only it didn't require falling head first.

Pulling out of it he realised it wasn't the kind of kiss he couldn't just pack in the back with the spare tyre.

'Do you live with Catlett?'

Rish turned sharply to the steering wheel. 'You're still thinking about him?'

'Only logistically.'

'I work at his residence three mornings a week. I do a bit of cleaning and tidying up.'

'In your swim suit?'

'There are cleaners you hire with ads in the newspaper classifieds and those you pull off stage of the Men's Gallery. I have my own flat. But what I'm wondering about is whose bedroom had the most panties lying around the floor, yours or mine.' She deliberated a moment and started the engine. 'Kissing isn't what I'd call a lie detector test, but it gives you a certain brand of truth. Put your seatbelt back on.'

Furn hadn't been wearing it in the first place. He didn't wear seatbelts for the same reason he didn't wear wristwatches.

13

'Morning Breeze!'

'Morning!'

Breeze did not look up quickly enough from the beautiful body to catch the face. And although the tattoo he was looking for was not on the flip side, he could not resist following her progress into Police Headquarters. Early twenties, foot patrol, likely just out of the Academy – Breeze could really see the difference.

It was the beginning of another day with the garment penetrators. Breeze was leaning against the brickwork halfway up the entrance steps, the sunshine beating down justifying sunglasses more than missing persons cum homicide investigation ever would. Most of the day shift had already filtered up the stairs. The stragglers still coming moved with greater urgency, meaning Breeze had to be on his toes.

In the past couple of days he had spotted plenty of tattoos. The usual array of barbed flowers and Celtic symbols. Even the odd serpent or dragon. But nothing sufficiently satanic, unfinished or positioned. If he didn't find the right to tattoo to justify this course of action his career was as good as over. Nashy had already given him an admonishing glance after she became aware of his involvement, even though she had been wearing her own pair of garment busters at the time. Circular black lenses and black frames, the military had not sacrificed fashion for efficiency.

'Detective Sergeant Burres.'

The voice caught Breeze by surprise. The female police officer had come up the steps quickly, while he was still preoccupied with that other officer's entry into HQ. She had a cute, rounded face; short, shiny black hair reveling in its morning rinse and comb; delicate white skin that had been kept out of the sun's way; and a slight stature that would have required another two steps up to take her to eye level - the strong, confident eyes, however, still had an impact from low down. Despite this proximity, Breeze had an equally hard time placing her as with the previous police officer; there was, nevertheless, something particularly familiar about her.

'Hello,' he said unconvincingly, wishing he had a name he could throw in.

'I get a lot of that,' she said perceptively. 'People who are sure they know me. Perhaps in a previous life. In your case it was almost true.'

Despite himself, Breeze caught a glimpse of cleavage as he took off the garment busters. And he couldn't help registering what he saw either. Firm, bold and an endearing birthmark or two. He carefully tucked the garment busters into a breast pocket, readjusting his eyes on the woman's low cut blouse.

'You're the dispatcher,' said Breeze, finally twigging.

'That's right. Eva Shaley. You took out three bad guys with an evidence bag over your head.'

'I may never live it down.'

'Sorry, I couldn't send you any help when you needed it.'

Another woman was heading up the stairs. At fifty-something an unlikely suspect. Still, Breeze gave Shaley an uncommitted shrug, not sure how keen he was to get cornered into a conversation.'

'I've got twenty minutes. How about a coffee?'

There was an intriguing sense of purpose in Shaley's voice. And her eyes didn't let him go.

'Okay,' he said and justified it with the thought that loitering outside police headquarters any further would likely have raised suspicion and walking off in the company of a fellow member of the force was a useful way to dispel it.

He quickly became suspicious of the twenty minutes. After all, it took a long ten minutes to reach the Barnaby Brasserie, not one of the regular cop hangouts. The prices and layout were respectable enough but the route took in the kind of backstreets that only the couriers knew about.

Purple tablecloths, red menus and black chairs, the decor was more stylish than cohesive. Shaley chose the furthest table from the Barnaby Brasserie's solitary apron. The young man was preparing the sandwich station for the day.

'The lattes here are very good,' recommended Shaley.

'Sure,' said Breeze.

She called out the order, looked over the pastries in the glass case below the counter and then got down to the point.

'Did you notice the position vacant sign in the window?'

'No.'

'It's the sort of thing you might want to start noticing.'

'Why's that?'

'Your fellow cops aren't backing you up. Not even your partner. Your outburst at the morning briefing has only exacerbated the bad blood.'

'Comes with the job,' said Breeze dismissively.

'Does your job come with an out strategy?'

'Seems like you're selling one.'

Shaley smirked conspiratorially. 'Let's just say a police dispatcher is a good friend to have. They get to know all the dirty inner workings of the Department. The kind of relationship taxi drivers have with the city.'

The apron wearing counter hand hurriedly dropped off the lattes on his way to returning to the cutting board. Breeze was intrigued enough in this conversation that he didn't even acknowledge his presence.

'Why are we having this conversation?'

'Smart, brave, ostracized, you might be a good friend for a dispatcher to have.'Shaley blew on the latte and then sipped off the scum.

'Okay,' said Breeze, 'I'm listening.'

'Sure, but just know that with your credibility the way it is, if you try to turn this conversation against me, nobody will listen to you. I'm just saying that an astute dispatcher knows how to think things through.'

'Okay.' Breeze went to his latte, trying to give the impression he could be as interested in that as anything else.

'One-shot Greenstreet is on the take and I know where he keeps the stash.'

'Senior Detective Jason Greenstreet?'

'He was closest to you when you made your Docklands call. Sitting on his stash like a mother-hen, dreaming of the day when it's big enough to hatch. But I know the type, a chicken trying to give birth to an elephant.'

'Drug money?' Breeze didn't really care about the stash's origins. He was a cop and cops asked questions – the way kids sucked on thumbs.

'He has his hands in Lester Tony's pockets and most of his competitors' as well. He's not a cop, he's a toll-booth for criminals.'

'And you think I'm clean enough to be trusted with a bit of dirty work?'

Shaley scanned the café in case it had suddenly grown ears and lowered her voice as though finally there was something she considered worth keeping a secret. 'I trust you.'

Breeze was unmoved. 'Usually any time would be the right time to rip off One-shot's fool's gold. The funny thing is now I'm on a case involving a secret organisation with a whole switchboard of tentacles.'

Shaley was deadpan. 'Wow.'

'Maybe you did send out my call for back up at the Docklands. And maybe you aren't trying to set me up here.' Breeze put on the garment busters. 'I don't want to hurt your feelings but bait has an ugly aftertaste. Excuse me.' He got up, snapping open his cell phone and making a call to Riley as he stepped away from the table.

'HQ is so far a negative,' said Breeze as soon as Riley answered.

'Try the Special Operations Group,' came the jaded reply. 'You'd better do it with a low profile 'cause some of them might recognise your brand of glasses.'

'Got it.' Breeze closed off the call. He pocketed the phone then rested the glasses on his forehead. 'Coming?'

Shaley slowly shook her head. 'I'm not as excited by my job as you seem to be.' She flicked her latte glass. 'I'm going to finish this in peace.'

Breeze felt around his pockets for some change to cover his.

'I'll get it,' said Shaley. 'If I thought you had a disposable income, we probably wouldn't be talking. Think about what I've said. If you want to see your kid in France, this job could be the quickest way to do it.'

Breeze nodded, trying to conceal the surprise that she knew such things. He would have to be careful with her. 'I'll think about it,' he said. He left the Barnaby Brasserie, hurriedly reuniting his phone with his ear. The dial tone was maddeningly persistent, following him back into the obscure residential streets, where cold-engined cars were wedged against gutters in colourful rows of metal.

'Senior Detective Greenstreet.' Although it barely even matched the dial tone for life, the dour voice was exactly the sound Breeze wanted to hear.

'One-shot, it's Breeze. We've got to talk.'

Greenstreet was fun to talk with as long as you didn't believe in pleasantries. 'When?'

Breeze didn't hear the gunshot and he didn't initially feel any pain – but his first experience at being shot was not going to be as anticlimactic as that. Blood sprayed across the windows of the closest of the parked cars. Surreally, he knew it was his. Still, if he was going to react to it appropriately it would required the kind of acting aspiring film stars put into their drama classes. While this was going through his mind his body was hitting the ground hard. The hands that might have cushioned the fall were tangled up somewhere else. Breeze realised with a chill his reaction to the bullet was as out of his hands as had been the bullet's trajectory in the first place.

The way the blood pumped from the hole in his shoulder reminded him of bleeding oil out of a car engine. Slow and think and with the inevitable promise of trickling dry. A hand was on the scene now, every finger volunteering to do the plugging. One of the five found the hole. It sunk in deep; warm, sticky blood seeped around the edges. Meanwhile, emerging from the core like a giant moon rising up from a desert was an excruciating, jaw-locking pain.

He must have been on his back. He was looking up into cloud. There was someone standing beside him. He noticed the gun then. The familiar Heckler and Koch light arms pistol. Gripped with a finger on the trigger. Then the tattoo. A devil's head on a coiled serpent's body. Bold and black. As was the scrawl below: "Bad Devil Bitch." Visible within the outline of a G-string. So, the garment busters had hung on. The tattoo looked finished as far as Breeze could tell. He wondered if it had been Masoo Benzona's final act alive. Who was this woman? A Praying Mantis of sorts, receptive to her mate before unleashing a fast death. Breeze tried to look up at the face. He got as far as her gold navel piercing. Death was coming for him now and this was better than most final images of the world. Why bother looking the killer in the eye at the expense of her hour glass figure?

'Looks painful, Detective Burres.' It wasn't the voice of a woman destined for sleepless nights of remorse for murderous deeds. 'The problem is you've got to get to about ninety years of age before dying stops getting painful and who's got the patience for that?'

She was going to finish him off. But he must have already been pretty far gone for her to be this comfortable having a chat.

'In your case,' she added, 'not me.'

Well in control. Breeze's forehead obligingly presenting itself for the coup de grace. However, beyond the forehead a distant memory was flickering to life. 'The Titanic's iceberg was a model killer,' the young Breeze's father was saying in his harsh French, stroking the boy's head as they strolled. Nice's stony shoreline – a summer's day buried under the grim weight of hundreds of subsequent summer days. 'It rose out of the water with the power to sink the unsinkable and then it slipped back into the water undetected and free. Breathtaking. Do not forget that lesson, Burres.'

Breeze's eyes flicked higher now. The garment busters took him through the ski mask to the steady eyes, narrow cheeks, and ambivalent mouth. Flesh and blood. A bullet would take her. Not the Titanic's iceberg.

It was disdain for her lack of perfection. It was the hand that had been firing guns since the days of that long neglected memory.

The movement was executed outside the realm of intentions and plans. He lifted his leg up to his chest. His hand closed on the handle and trigger of the Remington in the leg holster. Like the memory of his father, the Remington burst out of its inactivity with vivid ferocity and violence.

*

'That should do it, nurse. Best leave some skin on your hands for the patient.'

'Yes, doctor.'

Soila Waneta was annoyed that her voice contained tension while his was as steady as his life saving hands. It was true she had been excessively washing her hands, ritualistically savouring the moment to come. The dashing cop who had shot off his own foot to kill his wildly beautiful assailant, Waneta would be a player in the crucial final chapter, set to be played out on an Alfred Hospital operating table. Whether he lived or died, those tables never took sides. Stretching on her sterilised gloves she braved a follow up glance at the doctor meticulously lathering up his own hands. Even at sixty three years of age Dr De Chul was still regarded as the best gunshot trauma surgeon in the country. And with supreme calm and self-assurance he looked every bit of it. The one they would call upon if the Prime Minister himself were shot. It was an obvious general rule that gunshot victims had their enemies; it was much rarer that they had the kind of friends able to coerce Dr De Chul out of his beloved classroom.

It was irrefutable proof that Breeze was no ordinary cop. Waneta endeavoured to not attract any further attention. She feared it wouldn't take much for her colleagues to surmise that she had cashed in a favour to extend her shift beyond the night for the simple reason that this operation was personal, that she would do anything to be reunited with Breeze in circumstances far more exhilarating than a helicopter ride. She walked into the operating theatre, eyes fixated upon the patient.

14

'To put it bluntly, we're close enough to the Sapiens to get shot without being able to do much shooting ourselves. So either we pull back or risk getting closer still.'

The strengthening rain was forming fleeting circles on the Alfred Hospital roof. As long as Riley's cigarette stayed lit, the roof could be considered dry enough for their conversation.

Breeze was somewhere within the operating theaters below, sliced open for his second operation in less than twelve hours: this one a desperate attempt to save his left lung. The starkest illustration of the danger the RIP were facing.

Furn and Azu Nashy were the other participants in the rooftop meeting. The mood was decidedly grim.

Riley focussed his attention on Nashy. 'You need to consider your position carefully. You've left the RIP behind for a generously sized office at Federal Police HQ, dealing with cases involving organized crime, domestic terrorism and corrupt officials. It's a job with a good, solid future ahead of it.'

Nazu replied steadfastly. 'I'd rather consider our shooter. Nikki Savva wasn't a stranger. She was in the Red Line Files as a possible recruit to the RIP.'

'Making the Armed Robbery Squad less respectable than it needed to be. She made an impression. The Sapiens got to her and this is how it turned out. Give me her angle in the case and I'm in.' Riley exhaled a lungful of smoke at his watch – 9am. Time had a way of condemning or vindicating decisions. But it never made them. Via a squinting glance at the overcast sky Riley shifted his attention to Furn.

'She risked getting up close to leave one of those calling cards on him,' Furn said. 'It's the first mistake the Sapiens have made. It's a big one.' He smiled cruelly. He was unslept and unshaven but fresh all the same.

Riley spat out his cigarette and spat on it, even though a shallow puddle had already taken care of its flame. 'I'm going to check up on Breeze. You two are going to stay up here and talk. You either come back down as partners on this or we hand the case back to the Prime Minister with regrets.'

He marched off the roof. The rain on his suit left behind a smell more exotic than his Turkish tobacco. Alpaca? If he had wanted to be around for the next word he would have had quite a wait on his hands.

'Riley's right, you've won yourself an office with a hell of a view,' Furn finally said. 'Even if it is in Canberra. You'd be a fool to risk it on this.'

'I don't think trying to talk me out of it was exactly what Riley had in mind,' replied Nashy evenly. 'Anyway it won't do you any good. I owe Riley this. When he picked me up into the RIP I was taking bribes, planting evidence and doing a really bad job at it. I was headed for disaster. He taught me how to be an honest cop and still get by.' She held his eyes. 'You too.'

Furn's tone turned bitter. 'If you were enjoying it so much why did you leave us for the Feds?'

'I suppose you did your job too well. The RIP is all about foregoing any chance of advancement, any kind of security, always being an outsider. But I was having fun and didn't want it to end. So I jumped ship to the Feds.'

'But the fun stayed behind with the rats on the sinking one?'

'Something like that. Look, before things got screwed up we were a pretty good team.'

'Really? You once said being my partner you had to put up with more posing than a gymnasium mirror.'

'If you want to give the Sapiens back their own kind of punishment, you'll need my help.'

Furn mulled over the idea a moment and flicked her a smirk. 'I thought a time machine would have buttons and dials and lots of flashy lights. But in this case it turns out to be a well-oiled killing machine with cops and the twisted kin of PONIs as its inner workings.'

'Funny old world.' Nashy took out her phone, selected a number and waited impassively for a connection. 'Michael, I'm still in Melbourne. I'm going into the field, so don't try reaching me on my mobile. Any emergencies leave it with the dispatch. I'll call in this evening. Oh, and remember to pay the electricity bill.'

It wasn't always easy to tell the difference between cold messages and the warm and Furn wasn't even going to try.

Nashy snapped the phone away into her black and white sailor's jacket. 'There are two ends we need to tie. Catlett and Nikki Savva. Where's the nanny now? I know you've been pursuing her angle without success the past couple of days, but there's one idea gnawing at me.'

'What's that?' asked Furn with a croak.

'Catlett has a few lowlife associates, but what self-respecting bad-ass basketball player wouldn't? His career, however, has yet to take the kind of wrong turn that might really put him into bed with them. Drugs, alcohol, women of dubious intentions, they're all lined up at his doorstep, but that stuff is like his first MVP award, they haven't happened yet. So, what if we have been underestimating his charitable nature? Perhaps, the Sapiens ire was actually derived from something good: a good deed on his part.'

Furn shrugged. 'Nothing springs to mind.'

'Well, it might require some digging. We can squeeze a visit in on the way to Nikki Savva's psychiatrist.'

'Alright, let's go, partner.'

*

Furn spent the drive to Catlett's mulling over the predicament he found himself in. One more casualty and the RIP would be over, probably for good. And the woman who had put him off partners was his partner again. The physical attraction had not changed; with a woman who lived right and worked out two hours a day it probably never would. Her black business skirt had risen up in the car, exposing her long, toned thighs. Furn was still maneuvering the best way to spy them through his sunglasses when his Holden Executive arrived at 18 Ceremony Crescent, Toorak. It took fearless parking to slide so effortlessly between the Porsche Boxster and BMW MS out front of the Catlett mansion - or just a healthy disrespect for cars. There were cars of similar quality and price tags crammed into Catlett's driveway.

'Someone's home,' murmured Nashy wryly as she pushed open her door. 'Maybe that's it. Maybe the Sapiens have something against people who know how to buy a car.' She got out onto the street and straightened out her attire, starting at her skirt and working up to the shoulder holstered pistol under her jacket.

Furn meanwhile pressed the red intercom button at the gate and received the customarily monotone Rish Jones reply.

'This is Furn with Federal Police Agent Azu Nashy.'

'One moment, please.'

There was laughter from the backyard. The gates started to open. Rish strode down the driveway. She was wearing a loose collared white cardigan, which her hair poured over like a heavy sea crashing into rocks. She stopped, still well within Catlett's side of the gate.

'I'd invite you inside, but Clancy is hosting the professional basketball league's equivalent of a baby shower. Anyway, I suppose you're still using me to find out about him.'

Nashy stepped up alongside Furn. The two women afforded each other a casual, inquisitive glance.

'There's a line of enquiry we would like to pressure you with, Ms Taylor,' said Nashy.

Rish leaned back against a Ferrari, sinking her hands into the pockets of her black leather pants – for Furn, it was a full orchestra of sleek curves.

'Detective Sergeant Maroon and Burres have sought to ascertain whether or not you came into contact with anyone suspicious in the days and hours leading up to the home invasion. Perhaps, however, this contact occurred indirectly; perhaps even through some act of generosity or benevolence on the part of you or Mr Catlett. Can you think of anything in this regard?'

Rish wanted to say no. After a pause, however, she had something to concede. 'He picked up a woman's handkerchief.'

'Go on.'

'It blew up onto the leg of a silver human statue.'

'A what?'

'The guy whose painted silver and stands absolutely still. If you dropped a coin into his box he does some kind of robot play acting with a flower. You know what I'm talking about? The kind of street performer a family with nothing left to talk about might waste coin on. He was down at the Esplanade.'

'I get it. So what happened?'

'The silver guy just let the handkerchief sit under his foot, like he was waiting for someone to pay him to pick it up. The poor old woman was too nervous to do anything about it. Clancy gave the guy a nudge and retrieved it for her.'

'How did the street performer react to this?'

'He's a stillness artist. He wouldn't be doing much of a job if you could tell his reaction. The crowd seemed to appreciate it though. Clancy got quite a cheer.'

Nashy stared at her long and hard as her thoughts ticked over and she hurriedly stepped away, pressing out a call on her cellphone.

Furn stayed with Rish.

'You might have mentioned that earlier.'

Rish shrugged indifferently.'I guess I hold onto my tips better than I do my affection. You look different.'

'Breeze has been shot.'

'I heard on the radio. At first I thought it might be you. An investigative journalist has been reporting that Breeze is a member of a classified unit called the Rogue Intercept Squad. Is that true?'

Furn sucked the anger down under his tongue where it would have burned out a thermometer. 'Something like that. We call ourselves the RIP.'

'Now someone's leaked you to the press. Whatever fight you're in, you seem to be losing.'

'Is that why you offered us the tip?'

'I think it's for selfish reasons. You won't be much good for loving with your partner down. Go clean this up and if RIP is still on your id card and not your headstone come see me again.'

There was a honk of car horn. Nashy was already back in the car and ready to go.

Furn faced Rish a moment longer, wishing there was a way to arrest words without having to call the utterer as a witness.

'See you around,' he grunted.

He climbed into the car. Nashy was gripping the steering wheel, her seatbelt on, her foot revving up the engine into hysteria. There remained, all the same, a stillness about her.

'Riley is going to give us a name on that street performer. He says it's been confirmed the calling card Savva was going to leave on Breeze was different handwriting to the ones with Masoo Benzona and Barry Jewel. He says that now that he's gone to all the trouble of getting Jewel an early release the least you can do is follow him.'

'When does he get out?'

'This afternoon.' She turned from the steering wheel to Furn. 'If I hadn't lost my thin veneer of morality in two days of looking at people's private parts in a quest for a satanic tattoo, I might be up to wondering how you could consider a witness like that so cooperative.'

Rish's back was turned now. She was striding up the mansion's front path.

15

Chicago University. Oxford University. Clinical psychiatry. Masters. PhD. New Haven Literary Award. They were all printed boldly on the certificates on the wall behind the desk and it looked like the frames enjoyed a regular dusting and polish. Each one bore the name Zulma Pei. And the eyes peering at Nashy and Furn from the button leather chair was a similar deep black ink. Pei's olive skin was unblemished bar the creases around the corners of her eyes, which looked like ladders in a stocking. Her tightly bunned black hair may have been pulling back other wrinkles to the far side of her head. Her thick, glossy lips looked more like they had been treated by a taxidermist than a beautician. She wore a green suede jacket and a pink blouse, apparently as carefully coordinated and smoothed out as her professional tone of voice. 'What can I do for you?'

'Dr Pei, I'm so pleased to finally meet you,' said Nashy. 'I read your biography a couple of years ago. The way you overcame your abusive upbringing in Chicago, being raised amidst so much violence and death and having the courage to break away from it, I must say was very inspiring to me.'

Pei's eyes settled on Furn then. Apparently, it wasn't her admirers she worried about.

'Thank you, Federal Agent Nashy.I have come to believe that the greatest lesson in my childhood was that just as love can be one-way, sometimes so must reconciliation.' Her eyes tip-toed back to Nashy. 'It was with a heavy heart I heard the news of Nikki Savva's shooting. I assume that's why you're here.'

Her voice was deep and slow and somehow unconvincing - like an actor a take or two away from nailing the scene.Brilliant, educated, disowned and displaced. And now she had this office which afforded visitors, especially a couple of nosy cops, few distractions. There was a bookcase, where the books seemed to have been arranged according to height. On the top shelf was one cover facing copy of her bestselling memoir "The Gangster At Father's Day" and one back facing copy, her earnest, contemplative photographic portrait representation of the real person. Perhaps it wasn't blatant self-promotion. Perhaps, a patient with all his or her misgivings, apprehension, doubt, trauma and confusion could actually feel privileged to be here. A relief that kindred spirits wore one thousand dollar suits.

'To phrase it bluntly,' Nashy eventually said, 'did you see it coming?'

Zulmei Pei sucked her cheeks into a pucker. 'If a patient had disclosed an intention to commit murder, I would have been legally bound to report it to the authorities. I will provide the applicable session notes on production of the appropriate warrant. However, as friends of the alleged victim I would think carefully about such a request.'

'Why do you think he was a friend?'

'He was a cop. In my experience the cops with grudges come out first and the objective cops come out second. Sometimes unfortunately by then the case has been irreparably compromised.'

'With Breeze you won't find too many objective cops anyway,' said Furn. 'That is part of his appeal. Now how about a preview of those notes? Give us a hint at least.'

'Detective Sergeant Maroon,' came the haughty reply, 'normally I'd suggest you get your fix of previews at the cinema. In this situation, however, we are going to have the posthumous rantings of a disturbed woman against a man who, due to the horrific nature of his injuries, will be in no state to adequately defend himself. That is if we are to take the trouble of presuming innocence.'

'You're saying that Nikki Savva made some allegations against Detective Sergeant Burres?' interjected Nashy.

'She claimed he was stalking her. And sexually harassing her.'

'And you know the details of her allegations?'

Pei sucked in a deep breath and held it as though the conversation was a bout of hiccups. She released it with a sympathetic gaze. 'I have many patients who are members of your profession and I understand you are at the epicentre of the terrible human paradox: the truth that is known will never compensate for the truth that is not.'

Furn flicked his eyes at the memoir. 'Does that mean you specialise in dragging things up?'

Nashy slipped a hand under the table and squeezed a pressure point on his thigh. Furn took the hint and did not say anything more. Nashy took over. 'What Detective Sergeant Maroon was getting at was there might not be anything to be gained by bringing your session notes out into the light of day. Cops shooting cops is a touchy subject. The Department will treat the case like a death in a fishbowl – I mean, they will try to flush it down the toilet. Burres's family is estranged and living in France. They will not likely involve themselves, whether or not he survives his wounds. What about Savva's family?'

Dr Pei shook her head, satisfied that she had successfully herded the discussion into her own pending yard. 'There were significant issues with her family.' She looked to the gold hands of her Bvulgari watch that had been innocuously marking time under a shirt sleeve. 'I must apologise but I'm afraid my patients can't flick through magazines waiting for my help like they were getting a new hair-do.'

'Of course.' Nashy sprung out of her chair and shook hands with Pei, who momentarily savoured the newly empty chair. 'We appreciate your frankness. The matter will require serious internal consideration.'

'I hope your friend pulls through. Such a tragic incident.'

She released her hand and paused. This was probably the point when the average visitor would usually be granted an autographed copy of her book. Furn was already by the door. He noted that the waiting room's plush sofa chairs were all empty. The glossy magazines on the glass topped coffee table were neatly arranged, most likely by the personal assistant, but in a place like this there were probably some tidiness freaks who could be relied on to do just as good a job.

Nashy may have had an inkling of what was going through his head and grabbed him by another pressure point. The way her own lips were trawled together it was obvious she had something on her mind too.

Down on street level she was the first to exhale it.

'Breeze was too fast to be stalking someone like Savva. He'd be out in front the whole time. She shot him in the back and still came out second best.'

Furn smirked. This was the Nashy he used to know. Before the Force made an honest woman of her.

'All psychiatrists are screwy,' he replied. 'How else could they relate to their patients?'

'She was trying to manipulate us.'

'Maybe she's worried a patient going around shooting people could be construed as bad publicity. Or maybe she's just trying to keep it under wraps for a second book.'

'Or maybe we just walked into the heart of the Sapien empire.'

'Is that what you believe?'

'Cops shouldn't believe anything a judge can't. But when I was talking to her I had more goose bumps than a skinny dipper in a glacial pond.'

As they went off to retrieve the Executive from the half-car-length of street it had been crudely wedged into, Nashy called Riley. 'We might be on to something with Zelma Pei. She was plainly hiding something. We need to get into her patient lists, phone records, everything. If we're lucky, Barry Jewel's name might come up. Or even a certain Wragg Dokomad. Lord knows between them there'd be a mental health issue or two worthy of a professional consultation.'

Furn kept one ear on the call as he edgily checked over his shoulders. It was probably no coincidence Dr Pei's suite was only a kilometre down St. Kilda Road from Police HQ: head-twisted cops could slip out for a quick dose of therapy just as easily as they might a pack of cigarettes. There was no one behind them, at least no one sneaking up behind them - but Furn had the unnerving sensation of being watched.

Nashy's call had descended into nods and affirmations and then she closed up the phone with a vague smile.

'What is it?' Furn queried. 'Has he given us the afternoon off?'

'Better than that. He's given us a target.'

'Who?'

'We're getting a briefing at Crown Casino in twenty minutes. He hasn't been completely forthcoming, but I have an inkling it's the human statue.'

'The casino sounds promising as a meeting point at any rate. We're moving back down off the rooftops.'

16

The casino's wall clocks were about the only numbers that couldn't be bet on. It was 14:35 and Azu Nashy was out front of Furn, heading to the hotel elevators with the kind of strides sprinters take to the starting block. They were in a foyer of polished black tiles. The tall, domed ceiling was just as black, with a giant chandelier and starry glitter that the elevators promised to ascend into. A young Mandarin speaking couple in tennis outfits had already pressed the up button. They were quick to claim their right of being the first inside. They rode with Nashy and Furn for three out of seven floors but it was enough to glean that they liked their elevators quiet when there were strangers present. They stepped out onto the passageway, their hands reuniting with a newlywed freshness. The elevator doors closed again, the piano continued to tinkle over the speakers and Nashy and Furn didn't need the presence of strangers for their silence.

Riley had made Crown Casino one of the RIP's unofficial operational headquarters, drawn as he was to the kind of non-honeymooning gangsters that would burrow away in its lavish suites - many of them truly rogue. If the cops had had the authority to ignore their Do Not Disturb signs, their community service would have been at a whole different level.

Nashy knocked on Room 728 and glanced up and down the greyish green carpeted passageway, looking right through Furn. Riley threw open the door, piqued with purpose. His shirt was half untucked and his eyes bloodshot.

'Come in.'

There were three chairs evenly spaced around the lounge room's white circular table. The refrigerator door was open, the mini bar having been emptied out. Many of the empty bottles were on the floor. Riley took the window-facing chair.

'We've had a breakthrough,' he said.

His low, measured voice could not have been more of a contrast with the racket of electronic temptations down on the gaming floors. His demeanour was that of the serious gambler \- someone who didn't relax in process and didn't believe in ends.

'Catlett came into HQ this morning to identify the street performer as one of the home intruders, seemingly the instigator, and Wragg Dokomad as the accomplice. Apparently when he nudged the street performer aside to retrieve the handkerchief there were words exchanged. Now he's saying it was the same voice.'

'Why did he wait until now?' asked Nashy, sitting back into one of the chairs.

'Perhaps Rish convinced him of his moral obligations and civic responsibility to come clean. More likely an astute agent got onto him about all the publicity a celebrity victim could cash in on; especially in a case in which the city's murkiest cops were taking each other out.'

'How is Breeze?' interjected Furn.

'The surgeons have plugged the holes. And none of the machines have written him off yet. The doctors are hopeful he's in the mood for a fight.'

Furn nodded his head and finally sat down in the vacant chair.

'Military Intelligence thinks that we're getting close and have opened up their full resources. Satellites, on ground surveillance systems and -' he took out a gold Master Card and put it down on the table, 'it's been activated. Its pin number is all ones.'

Furn and Nashy both shot a hand for it. Furn won.

'With MI you don't have to worry about the budget getting in the way,' added Riley.

'You got a name on the statue man?' Furn queried, gazing over the credit card details.

'Guy Odierno is the name on the Tourist Authority's permit. Could be an alias. We're checking that out.'

'Surveillance camera footage?'

'MI has access to surveillance cameras you wouldn't even know existed.

Images are flooding in. Odierno must have done his act in front of every camera in every city in the country. Doesn't make for spectacular viewing though. It's like watching someone watching golf.'

'Have you got any footage on the Catlett incident?' snapped Nashy, her testiness perhaps owing to the missed credit card.

'It's a rare highlight. It appears to show Odierno signalling to someone after he was nudged aside by Catlett. We didn't get who, but it could be Dokomad. The current theory is that Odierno has been using the living statue role to conduct some kind of surveillance work of his own. Perhaps, casing out targets. And using Dokomad as a spotter.'

'With two hundred and twenty centimetre professional basketball players for targets, the spotter could stay at home,' murmured Furn.

'Book yourselves into a hotel. Somewhere low profile. Wrap yourselves in cotton wool. When the live statue makes another appearance we'll call you in.'

'All this cooperation with the military. Have they gotten around to telling us what they're going to do with Wragg when we bring him in?'

'I'd call it assistance not cooperation. A whole lot of assistance.'

'Now that Breeze is down, I don't care as much as I used to,' said Nashy, 'but taking us off the investigation could be a mistake.'

'Why do you say that?'

'We were getting close to the Sapiens. Then we suddenly drop off the radar. It might worry them into doing that themselves. So, let's give them some misdirection. Something high profile. We'll make it look like we're too busy trying to save our own necks to be a threat to anyone else.'

'What did you have in mind?'

'A call to the press for starters. A tip-off about those garment busters. That'll be our bit for supporting the flagging newspaper industry.'

Riley's eyes flamed an instant. 'That's just for starters?'

'We need something current. Something unrelated out of the Red Line Files. And we'll make it messy. That'll be three prime time strikes against the RIP in a week. No self-respecting Sapien will think of us as a threat then.'

A headache might have been coming on: Riley took his time putting on his glasses. 'If we do this, the RIP will most likely be finished whether we are successful in the case or not.' He looked to his long serving Detective Sergeant who was smirking wryly.

'I don't know about that,' muttered Furn. 'Once word gets out about those garment penetrating glasses, we'll have transfer requests up to our ears.'

'Book yourselves into that hotel. One room. This is no time for modesty. You need to be watching each other's back.' Riley stood up. 'After all, once I've tipped off the press, no one else will.'

Furn joined him on his feet, catching a glimpse through a bedroom doorway at a black briefcase half submerged in a cream queen-sized bedspread: The Red Line Files. And as long as they contained the kind of stinking cases no other department would touch, the RIP's future was brighter than Riley feared.

'See you later,' said Furn, quietly confident, as he headed for the door, that the next time they met the Red Line Files would be just that little bit lighter.

17

'Don't give another mechanic the chance to do a bad job. If it's still dropping oil take it back to O'Reilly's. If you've forgotten the address, just follow the oil stains on the road.'

Nashy was looking good in the soft pink hotel bathrobe. After a one hour session of push-ups and sit-ups, she was still pacing the hotel room with a spring in her step.

Furn, feet up in front of the evening news, had over-drafted on more than one glance. The way those toned, fresh as the season thighs disappeared up into past moments was incredibly enticing.

'Michael, you're not borrowing my car for lack of guts with a crooked mechanic.'

The Ford Mustang. When Furn had broke up with Azu he had needed to get over two things and one of them was that.

There was a light tap on the door. Furn took with him the gun that lived next to the remote control for moments like these. His bare feet on the well groomed carpet didn't betray a sound. He got alongside the door and ducked down low as a precaution.

'Who is it?'

'The maid,' came Riley's dry reply.

'There's no need for a secret knock with an attitude like that,' said Furn, opening the door.

Riley strode deep into the room. Nashy flicked him a preoccupied wave with her non-phone hand. Riley folded his arms and gave the room a grim assessment.

'You obviously took it to heart when I said you're not here to save money. The Reagent, no less.'

'Just testing out the MI's gold card,' replied Furn, locking the door again.

'The doctors think Breeze is a good chance to get through the night. And if he can do that, his chances are looking up.'

'What about the stillness artist? Has he stuck his head out yet?'

'Not as yet.'

'Azu was considering calling Zulma Pei to tell her we won't be pursuing Savva's therapy notes, but it sounded too obvious. We're just going to have to go big to put their minds at ease.'

'There's a journalist at the Herald Sun who is working overtime on an extended deadline for tomorrow's front page. And he thinks he owes me a favour.'

'Then let's swing our third strike,' called out Nashy.'If I'm going to stay here another night I wouldn't mind watching myself on TV.' She pointed to it: it was showing a twenty four hour news station with the sound turned down.

Riley grabbed the remote control and turned it off. 'I've got something for you to do.'

'Alright, was is it?' said Nashy, flicking back her damp, fresh smelling hair with the same lack of ceremony it seemed she had ended her phone call with her husband.

'Breeze's waterfront escapade is still fresh in the papers,' said Riley. 'Another chapter would make plenty of noise.'

'What do you have in mind?'

'There was a lead that never panned out. Janet Murgier an ex-girlfriend of Ray's. She's been linked to a couple of armed robberies and romantically to a couple of armed robbers and we were hoping, when things got tight, Ray might show his sentimental side and come trying to sponge off her. Surveillance staked her place out for over a week but had nothing much to report. She occasionally babysat her kid for her mum. But mostly she just returned home from the late shift with a different man and a different TV set under her arm.'

'Want to have a seat?' queried Furn.

'Nah. It's late and I've spent the whole day looking at one kind of technology or another. It tires you out even when it's state of the art.'

'So, what about the ex?'

'Ray's still on the run and so it would make sense to a lot of people if we went into her place and started busting things up. One thing you can count on is she'd make a noise about it. Not the shrinking violet type. Recently went all the way to court on a measly parking ticket and gave the judge hell. 13 Gilrose Avenue, North Altona is her address. If there's nothing in the house worth breaking, just stick to smashing the windows and tossing some of the furniture out onto the lawn. The press would be more comfortable taking their shots street side anyway.'

He looked down at his feet and, when no afterthoughts surfaced, promptly exited the room.

Furn took care of the door and faced an uninspired looking Nashy.

'What's not to like about that?' he murmured. 'Terrorising a woman for the sole reason she's a big screamer. I'll be waking early up early for that one.'

He flung himself flat onto the black leather, triple cushion couch, finishing up on his side, his nose wedged between the arm-rest and back.

'Turn out the light,' he grumbled.

'Come with me,' replied Nashy, having stood her ground.

Furn wrestled his head up just enough that his ears were clear. 'What?'

'Like Riley said, we're watching each other's back now, and I don't want you impeded with a stiff neck you got from a night on a couch.'

'Good point.' Furn got off the couch and strode into the deluxe bedroom. 'You'd still better turn off the light.'

Maroon bedspread with purple trim, matching pillows, a holstered pistol on the bedside table and Federal Agent satin lingerie on the floor. That was the scene before him until it got dark. And it was very dark. The blinds were thick enough to block out all the city's light, the windows thick enough to block out all of its sounds.

Furn felt Nashy slip past him into the bed. They had been together long enough for him to know which side she would take. He couldn't see if she was still wearing the bath robe but he guessed he knew something about that as well.

What surprised him was once he was in the bed how quickly her hands were upon him, stroking the flatness of his stomach.

'You're not worried about Michael, are you?' he asked.

She whispered softly into his ear, seemingly knowing exactly where to aim. 'Everyone's had a chance to be Michael. I'm worried about us. I don't want you staying awake all night pining over an unobtainable body beside you. It would be detrimental to your aim. If we're not going to wind up dead partners, we'll have to do some living.'

The touch was not going away and Furn reciprocated. Her stomach was just as flat and then he went lower. She melted against him with a deep sigh.

Furn felt a pang of regret: he had had a chance to be Michael.

18

Furn knocked on a front door that had lost most of its paint and was water stained from the leaks in the roof spouting above.

'Who is it?' came a hawkish female voice from within the house.

'Janet Murgier, is that you?'

'Janet Murgier? Who the hell is that?'

Furn took that as a yes and the next time he touched the front door of 13 Gilrose Avenue it was with a battering ram in hand. The backstreets of North Altona warranted stronger front doors than this one. It flew off its hinges and took a chunk out of the wall on its way into the living room.

Murgier sprung off her couch and out a rear door, a whip of ginger hair and a freckled cheek the only glimpse the two police officers got.

Azu Nashy entered the premise first, balanced and deceptively quick, her pistol confidently pointing the way.

'I'm left.'

Furn stopped inside on the right, and was astounded by what he saw. Televisions, stereos, refrigerators, microwaves, digital players and cameras; it was an entire warehouse worth of electrical goods crammed into one small house. Murgier was better at stealing than she was at selling - perhaps, she was a hoarder, which was not the most profitable trait for a petty thief to have. Furn kept low, weaving watchfully between the appliances, aware she must have had help to carry this lot.

The house plan had indicated a circular layout. Hopefully Nashy was herding Murgier to him. He couldn't wait to get her hand-cuffed, so that he could start smashing up the place. It would be bad publicity and it would feel so good. The only TV he had ever broken was after a girlfriend walked out on him, which he supposed hadn't made much sense seeings the one thing she had not been dating him for was the quality of his TV set.

He was through an arched doorway into what he supposed was the living room, though now there were washing machines on top of everything else. That front door had probably been taken off its hinges more than once to fit in some of this stuff. It was getting ridiculous.

There came a shrill female scream from the other side of the house. Furn knew it wasn't Nashy because she simply didn't scream. He kept himself from running, but his skin suddenly felt cold like all those refrigerators had been opened - it was the feeling of danger.

'There's someone else in the house!' Nashy shouted.

There was the roar of gunfire and the relative comedy of ricochet. Furn had to decide whether to rush in or hold his position. He took a step forward only to realise he hadn't decided yet. He ducked down low, realising there was enough metal in the house for a bullet to ricochet a good lap or two. What came at Furn, however, was bigger than a bullet, and he didn't react in time. It struck his back, knocking him completely off balance. It was a microwave and the electric cord was left draped loosely over his shoulder. Two huge hands flung him viciously into a refrigerator and without pause, the large man charged into him, brutally trying to rip free his pistol.

Furn, however, retained both hands on the handle and a finger on the trigger; he recalled the glue his first hand to hand combat instructor, Toothless Jock, had coated his palm with all those years ago. 'This is how you hold onto a gun!' he had cried. As Furn's head was rammed hard against the hard corner of another appliance, he was hearing him again now. Erect veins ran along his assailant's fiendishly large biceps like metal piping. Furn would have to bend them in half in order to point the gun where he wanted it to go. He was struggling, however, merely to hold his own and saved the meagre remainder of his fast draining strength for a better idea. He needed to think fast, for the man against him was clearly not going to settle for a draw. Nashy was not to be relied on either - the idea of them watching each other's back had ended with the raid's commencement and with someone like Janet Murgier to chase after.

Furn frustratedly stopped trying to think his way out of his plight and instead used his head as a club, smacking a fearsome blow just above his assailant's ear. It earned him a smidgeon more movement with his gun and he used it to shoot out a television screen directly ahead. The man discounted it as desperation, happy for Furn to empty the whole clip in that direction if he so cared.

'I did that to my own TV when the evening news showed how your partner, Breeze, got shot,' he spat, 'just 'cause I wanted to give him some of this.' The man drew a fist back in preparation for a fierce punch. But Furn still had piece of mind to counter, driving the arm upon him into the jagged glass of the shot out TV screen. The scream it elicited was loud and the copious amounts of blood that flowed were an effective lubricant as Furn easily slipped away into space. He glanced down at his now uncontested pistol: it was rare for there to be so much blood on a gun that was yet to be used. He was tempted to rectify it when Nashy came storming into the room.

'Are you okay?' she hollered down the length of her own pistol.

'Depends who you're talking to,' Furn replied.

'You with the gash on your head.'

Furn dabbed his forehead and came away with a smear of blood. 'It's nothing much. After what we've been doing in that hotel, a beating is just what I needed.'

Nashy kicked the man's legs out from under him. 'Get down on your stomach. A fool like you gets handcuffs for band aids.'

As Nashy stabbed a knee into his back and roughly applied the handcuffs Furn took a closer look at the face. The man's identity was contorted with agony in a living abstract picture.

There was the goatee beard, the concave forehead, the pronounced ears, the jutting chin, the bulldog nose, the designer suntan in a sewer complexion. Furn sighed and went to his phone. The line opened quickly though the Riley acknowledging grunt required some patience.

'Better bring a couple of squad cars and an ambulance,' said Furn. 'Murgier has been secured.' He looked to Nashy for confirmation and got it with a preoccupied nod. 'We've made a bit of a mess but it's not all good news. We've recovered a whole lot of stolen property and made the kind of arrest that could only be described as promotion worthy.'

'Rufus Ray was there, after all?'

'That's right. The best we can do to salvage the situation is rough him up a bit more than we should.'

'Nah, you've actually done something right for a change. No need to spoil it. The morning papers have already sullied us over those glasses. Let's see which runs the longest, the good news or the bad.'

'Fine.'

Furn replaced the phone with a cigarette. There was the siren of a police car out and about. Riley wasn't that fast: probably a neighbour on speed dial.

Nashy had the handcuffs on Ray now, quick and easy.

'Chained to a desk yourself, but you haven't forgotten how to do some chaining of your own,' Furn observed.

'Very funny.'

Furn patted the bloody gash with the back of his hand. 'You got any cloth on you that wouldn't cause an infection?'

'Yeah, I changed my boxers this morning.'

Furn smirked and lit his cigarette. The old, dirty habits felt new again.

19

Another day at the Regent Hotel and the baths were getting longer. Furn was taking his with the morning paper that came with the room service. With its bottom languishing in bubbles, he was rereading an article by Dan Fessendon, the veteran freelance crime writer, trying to determine if he was acting as Riley's unofficial media liaisons. The article questioned rather than condemned the use of the X-ray glasses in pulling murderers off the street. Fessendon suggested that although the outcry from the community and religious leaders was understandable, it was highly unlikely any of them could have protected society from such a ruthless underworld figure as Rufus Ray. Nonetheless, the society being protected had the right to demand the Rogue Intercept Police stand down until a Charter of Conduct could be ratified. That last line sounded exactly like the kind of thing Riley would blurt out after a few lonesome lunch time drinks in one back alley bar or another, content at least that the bill would remain the property of the Victorian Police Force whether or not it wished to officially acknowledge its existence. Furn supposed he was in that regards just another bill. At least, it was being written in a five star hotel.

Somewhere between moving on from Fessendon's article and the newspaper getting completely waterlogged, he found himself with company in the bathroom. There was nothing on Nashy's feet to make a noise on the cool black tiles and nothing on her body except a pink bath towel. She took it into the bath with her. Furn had noticed a pattern with this: the only things she took off in his presence were those belonging to the hotel, and no matter how soiled or soaked they got, they always came back spotlessly clean the next day. She tossed the towel onto the floor. He did the same with the newspaper. Nashy waded through the bubbles onto his lap. The kiss he got, the one in which she put her whole being into it, he had only experienced once before: around the time she had first left him. This time he clung onto it until he was sure it was exhausted. It was a mutual climax of sorts the way they pulled back from each other.

'Are we checking out?' Furn asked.

Nashy remained on his lap, fidgeted with his chest hairs as though looking for a way in. 'Odierno stepped in front of a surveillance camera in Sydney - well, actually, people on a first name basis with the scam he's pulling refer to him as McNaught. Heard of him? In my real job with the Feds he would be considered the main event.'

'Yeah? I haven't heard of him.'

'Tony McNaught is one of Australia's most successful armed robbers, if you use the criteria alive, at large and untouched. There are a lot of cops who would like his collar on their records. What the Force would save in reward money it would repay in the tin and ribbon of medals. Riley is already on his way up to Sydney. There's a car coming to pick us up. We've got half an hour to pack our bags, though I'm taking a bath instead.'

Furn ran his fingers down the soft skin behind her ribs, stopping at her slim waist. Her mouth was still near enough to kiss, but there was something about her eyes: they weren't going to close if he did kiss her - they probably wouldn't even blink.

'Why don't you hang back, settle yourself for McNaught?' he said. 'You'll get yourself a bigger desk yet. And a stable enough life to start decorating it with family holiday photos. Leave Dokomad to me.'

Nashy swallowed with a barely perceptible bitterness. 'I didn't just follow your girlfriend around. You split a lap dance with Healy Smith at the Underground Gold Club. Remember that? After you get kicked off the force, you're going into radical politics, right? So, the more tainted you get the more those kinds of friends will stick to you.'

Furn smirked cruelly. 'What I'm doing now is the only kind of policing the Right Nation Party would tolerate. Anyway, all I really know is that when I'm put out to pasture, it'll be one with plenty of manure.'

'There's something else you know.'

'What's that?'

Nashy's mouth went to his with a sharp kiss. 'You know this water's getting cold.'

'Yeah, you're right, I know that.'

20

'Breeze is off the critical list,' said Riley in a low-key voice. 'Dr Dae Chul is already preparing a journal article about how he saved his life.'

Furn was shaking off the Friday evening rain from his jacket, being careful to avoid short circuits in an office suite packed with surveillance equipment. He studied the scenes on the wall-mounted monitors and, despite the darkness, recognised Darling Harbor, Circular Quay and the Manly foreshore. Only the occasional lonely umbrella was bobbing into view but with a new day and a bout of sunshine on the way, the crowds would come and possibly with them McNaught, bringing his peculiar brand of stillness art. All the electronics eyes this cluttered room had on the streets did not dispel Furn's feeling he would be very much on his own upon them.

'Azu has gone off to secure one of the two fast response vehicles in Sydney modified to hold extra fuel tanks,' he said, smoothing back his damp hair.

'There's more than one military base on an eight hundred kilometre stretch of road. None of them will take Dokomad?'

'The instructions are specific,' said Riley. 'The East Gate of Fairfield Military Hospital, Melbourne.'

'I don't like being disowned before an operation has even begun. It's like being asked to bite into a dish while the chef is out the back door sprinting into a taxi.'

Riley was sitting lightly on the arm of a red leather reclining sofa chair in the centre of the room; a good vantage point from which to wait out someone as unhurried as the silver statue.

'Before you start worrying about an extended drive in the country you're going to have to get passed Tony McNaught, the guy that made mincemeat out of a two and a half metre professional basketball player. He's known as one hell of a street fighter. And the only back up we're getting is with computer software.'

Furn went over to the coffee percolator. He wasn't expecting much but his flight from Melbourne hadn't come with cabin service. If he wanted corporate jet refrigerators stocked with beverages, he was in entirely the wrong line of business.

'So, this McNaught is a real bad ass. Living statues though strike me as being particularly small time.'

The coffee was luke warm and had the consistency of old engine oil.

'Maybe he doesn't need the money,' said Riley. 'He's linked to some high yielding armed robberies that have remained unsolved. It seems McNaught isn't much of a people lover. When he's frozen up doing that statue thing his eyes are actively seeking out anyone he has a particular dislike for. Unprovoked assaults in his vicinity have included lawyers, politicians, cops, corporate executives.'

'And basketball players.' Furn twisted up his face as he put down the coffee cup. 'Did I just drink printer ink by mistake?'

Riley's frown suggested the coffee percolator was the only piece of equipment he had installed himself. 'The weather forecast has the sky clearing up by tomorrow afternoon. Sunny on Sunday. If the silver man is going to show, it'll be a weekend matinee. I've enlisted Ricky Purvis out of Traffic to do his best to provoke him. The guys pretty annoying so will have a good shot at it. You know him?'

Furn shook his head.

'He's eyeing the potential vacancy should Breeze not come back. He's a karate black belt and has the driving acumen to hold his own on the highway.'

'You're pitting a traffic cop against the Sapiens. Are you counting on some beginner's luck?'

'Luck, yes. Zulma Pei's patient list doesn't show any indications of the Sapiens as far as we can tell. She might have been wise enough to poach her fruit from elsewhere. What it means is we've got one crack at this. If we don't cut off the head we'll never catch up to the body.'

Furn idly took another look at the umbrellas on the monitors. He could have done with one of his own; especially in a city where cars were as much a hindrance as a help.

'I'm taking Nashy out to a noodle joint. Why don't you come along? Bring Purvis too. It'll be a fitting location to finally divulge how you came to be known as Riley.'

'The one man who knows seems to appreciate the idea that he's at least taking something to his grave. I wouldn't want to spoil that for him. Anyway, I've got some preparations still to do here. You go off and enjoy yourselves.'

'What about Purvis?'

'He's walking laps of the Opera House, getting his thoughts together, getting himself into character. He's going to be playing an alcoholic drunk. Maybe you could give him some pointers.'

'He's a traffic cop, right? He'll know what he's doing.'

The two men smiled, tense and excited. The surveillance camera that had picked up McNaught was only a block away and both men could sense his presence in the city. They were like naturalists following up the sighting of a rare and dangerous animal in a jungle teeming with predators. Certainly a quarry that belonged in a zoo.

'See you at breakfast,' said Furn, heading for the door. 'Don't bring your coffee with you.'

'I don't like to bring this up,' said Riley after him, 'but there's been a directive straight from the Commissioner that's come about in light of what happened to Breeze and the job we've been doing.'

Furn stopped, intrigued by the reticence in Riley's usually assured voice. 'What directive?'

'The RIP will no longer be eligible for any official citations or medals.'

Furn yanked down on the door handle and laughed. 'Don't worry about that. When I joined the RIP, it was with the realisation I wouldn't be mounting plaques on my walls; heads maybe, but not plaques.'

Riley nodded. 'We'll see what we can do about that.'

Furn walked out into the empty corridor of light green walls and grey carpet; he let his sweaty armpit feel the handle of the cleaned up pistol holstered in its warmth.

*

The dinner time conversation was as light as the string noodles and Cascade beer. Then there was love making in the big hard bed. The bed was way too big – a feast for two that was being catered for ten. Nashy's eyes stayed closed throughout; Furn wondered if she was lost in the moment or just plain lost. He slept holding her to his back. An uncomfortable, dreamless sleep. When he awoke he realised he had lost her to some of that superfluous mattress.

Sunshine gleamed brightly in the windows of their tenth floor Sheraton Hotel room. The good weather had come early.

21

Both international and national tourists who had seen the Opera House and the Harbor Bridge and wondered what came next tended to congregate at Darling Harbor. The exhausting maze of boutiques, food and novelty stores could soak up a good couple of hours, and when these tourists reemerged onto the expansive harbor-side walkways, they often had numerous bags of souvenirs to show for it. And although wads of money may have been pleasantly siphoned away, there were frequent shuttle-ferries to the nearby casino for those who would attempt retrieval.

Darling Harbor's outdoor space was a haven for street performers, for the Australian currency in the pockets of international tourists was as light and whimsical as their fleeting vacation; a coin, a gold coin or a plastic not could be comfortably dropped into the velvet lined cases at the street performers' feet. The bottom's rarely remained exposed for long.

The silver statue attracted onlookers with his incredibly pure stillness. People were fascinated by it. They would get into the spirit of it for a moment or two, drop some money and then be on their way. Those who stayed any longer were usually female and were marvelling at the solid pecs in the glittering t-shirt, the airbrushed biceps, the crotch-hugging pants.

Behind the large bee-eye sunglasses, the silver statue was watching them too, his eyes wildly alive, the focal point of his ferocious energy. The money being deposited into his case was of no consequence to him. An insult even. He usually just unloaded it on the first homeless drunk he came across. Or a drug abuser was even better. Let them shoot up with the proceeds of his stillness. There was nothing benevolent about his actions. And if the recipients ever got in his face about wanting more, he would put them down flat.

The silver statue had killed men with his bare hands and, far from losing sleep over it, had awoken the next morning calmer than ever, had found his true stillness. He prided himself on being the most dangerous man in whatever city he happened to be in. Having travelled through some remarkably dangerous cities, he had learnt what that entailed. Set up for years to come with some boutique home break-ins, he was one of the precious few who could afford to be exactly what he wanted to be. And this was it. Painted silver and still. A spider web for the unwary.

It was early on Saturday afternoon, too early for the drunk swaying in the crowd to have a good reason to be in the state he was in. And this one clearly wasn't homeless either. Hunched over as he was, he was making his expensive wool suit look like five dollars. He was sucking the smoke out of his cigarette like it was marrow out of the bone; the man had probably already been kicked out of the casino for being a drunk, arrogant bastard. Tony McNaught watched him intently with the bitter sweet taste of hatred in his mouth.

The man abruptly pushed past a couple of adolescent girls taking pictures with their phones to get to the front. He stared and he sneered contemptuously. He hawked up something revolting and spat it into the money case. Then he took another drag on his cigarette, admiring his handiwork.

'Yeah, you stand there and take it,' he snapped. 'Just like a good bitch should.'

He flicked the cigarette at the large silver boots and shakily strutted away, trying to hold his head high despite those hunched shoulders.

The silver statue had not flinched, had remained completely motionless. Most notably, the eyes hidden behind the glasses had become deadly still, boring into the drunk. Mechanically, remaining firmly in character, he lifted a hand and swivelled at the waste, as though it had been a coin and not phlegm deposited in his case. Slowly, mechanically his finger pointed at the departing man. He held this position a moment and then the finger retracted and he gradually resumed his regular position. But that was enough. The signal had been given.

*

Perfecting an unsteady gait had not been much of a stretch for Ricky Purvis. It was owing, however, to the nerves rather than any alcohol. His provocations at Darling Harbor had defied the first tenet of his karate instruction: to avoid conflict at all cost. What he had done would demand response – could not be ignored. For some, even a bullet in the back would be justified. And it happened every day. That was how he came to be here, after all.

He let his shoulder bump into a wall and straightened himself up with a tug of his pants. He was heading into the Rocks, the ancient cobbled streets that were the remnants of Sydney's first British settlement: at best, a haunted collection of narrow, winding streets, at worst, a mugger's paradise. On this sunny afternoon with a madman on his heels, it was no place for the faint-hearted.

Purvis was contemplating a stumble on the steps leading to the next level of street in order to manufacture a glance back behind him. There had to be a person of interest there; otherwise, the RIP phone in his suit pocket would have already called him off. He was following the prearranged route which he had been assured was fully under the gaze of concealed cameras; and judging by the visuals on the monitors, he had seen at the Oxford Street suite also included satellite surveillance. Nonetheless, no matter how many pairs of friendly eyes were upon him, he had the nasty feeling the least friendly were the closest.

He took the steps laboriously, the sight of Cumberland Street above distracting him from the stumble. Riley had assured him that any arrest of a pursuer would come before then; the designated spot would be marked by a purple pot plant out front. Right turn, left turn. He remembered that. It was another cobbled walkway. Purvis checked a passing window for reflections. He was the first stranger he saw. The dark, green suit, straggly blonde hair, flushed pink complexion, more resembled his younger brother, the one who had run off with a high school sweetheart and was still stalking her to this day; he really was a stranger.

The other man, Purvis caught in a single frame image: strong brow and cheekbones shrouded under the rim of a baseball cap. Too close to have not been heard. Big men like that didn't wear ballet shoes.

Purvis desperately sought out that pot plant. He couldn't let this man get any closer. On the other hand, if he was the spotter he was close enough for Purvis to take him out by himself. That would be a coup on his first job. Purvis' cheek was twitching with the tension. This might even have been the right street. They all looked the same. He hadn't been given enough time to prepare. A purple pot plant? What would it look like? Maybe some kid had run off with it. Why didn't they use a marker that could be bolted down? Did the RIP really know what they were doing? Could they really be trusted? They were splashed all over the news: mismanagement, incompetence, and maybe this would be the biggest story yet: a promising, up and coming member of the Victorian Police Force taken out by some low-life for the lack of a gardening pot.

Purvis wouldn't let it come to that. The adrenaline was washing through his muscles on heavy cycle. His next movement, satisfactorily rationalised, would be aggressive; the only thing holding him back was the grip of that other golden tenet in karate: do not go rogue. It compelled him to take another look for the flower pot.

There was an explosion of movement from the bushes, just two doors up from the window that had alerted him to the impending danger. He spun round fast and felt an immediate surge of relief. The RIP wasn't so bad after all.

The scuffle was as quiet as though it really were occurring on ballet shoes, Furn and Nashy were all over the man in the baseball cap. They had him down on his stomach, his hands behind his back. Nothing was said until the handcuffs were snapped on, then enjoying a wry smirk Furn murmured, 'Wragg, we could read you your rights but then you'd just be aware of what you're missing.'

He took one shoulder and Nashy the other and they hauled Wragg Dokomad to his feet, more than a little gruffly for someone considered so valuable.

'About time,' sighed Purvis, shaking the undelivered punches out of his arms. 'Next time you need bait I'll give you directions to the fish and tackle store.'

He was walking closer, but in a sudden, inexplicable instant of agony, he was flung off his feet, his body feeling like it was being torn in two, and his head bounced against the road. From deep within his throat, a hideous scream came pouring out – seemingly the sum of all the screams he had ever heard in all the mangle wrecks he had attended - the place in his head that had contained them all must have been breached. He pressed down hard on his lip, not wanting to add to them his own.

Furn prevented a second shot by skewering McNaught's hand on the picket fence he had just jumped over. If he thought that would be a turning point, he was in for a rude shock. McNaught was a hands-on fighter and he was merely shedding the gun the way a gentleman might his jacket. His firing hand left behind the gun and a strip of skin as it lifted a vicious punch into Nashy's jaw, and his boot met her at ground level with a rib cracking kick.

'Stay with Wragg!' Furn shouted at her, employing a kick of his own, hoping to ensure Wragg was still around after Nashy had pulled herself together again.

There was still silver make-up on McNaught's muscled neck and gnawed upon ears; it was make-up that needed to be put on thick to conceal all those battle scars, such as knife wounds, burn marks and a chain imprint right across his cheek. The face of a fiendish Tasmanian Devil, right up to the streamers of saliva flapping around his mouth. What Furn read into it most was that only the dirtiest kind of fighting had left a mark. He went for a fast draw, but no sooner was the pistol out from his jacket that he was disarmed with a fearsome chop down on his wrist. McNaught's other hand went to his throat. Furn was dragged across the street and thrown through a residential window.

Was that Elvis Presley he could hear? He was in someone's living room, his head smashing against a sharp corner and then Elvis Presley was on top of him. Terrified screaming filled the room. Furn rolled painfully onto his back; if there were any gaping wounds in his back, the TV screen might plug them. McNaught was momentarily engaged with the home owner. An overweight bearded man whose t-shirt rose to his chin as McNaught head-butted him over the couch; and the screamer, whom McNaught hesitated to hit, not so much because she was a woman but because there was so much new-wave avant-garde furniture in this living room that he wanted to involve in the process. He chose a leopard-print floor lamp, sling-shotting the woman into it. He did it wildly, a man possessed. This man was going to kill Furn. He was going to arm himself with something equally as gaudy and crack Furn's head open with it. Furn needed to get moving.

'Look at these,' said McNaught, picking up a couple of weight laden dumb-bells and effortlessly curling them. 'Knuckle-dusters.'

Furn's first attempt to stand up meanwhile was less than convincing: his hand slipped on the TV screen upon him and he was back where he started. He could feel sticky blood between his fingers. He tried to wipe it off on his shirt and give it another try. Elvis Presley, the overweight 1970s version, was still performing on top of him and was moving far more fluently as he shuffled across the stage in his gold embroidered jumpsuit.

Another man entered the room, though he came through the door, and like smoke under a doorway he started off small and then got big. McNaught turned his attention upon him with his manic fury; his knuckledusters, however, weren't particularly effective against him: even when they went airborne the newcomer was effortlessly able to elude them. Who was he? Furn was gazing out from under the TV but could not focus through the haze within his head. Still, it was clear the man was too big to be Riley. Someone from Military Intelligence? Hidden backup? Remarkably, the newcomer had a fury to match McNaught's and any pieces of furniture in the pokey living room that had been left whole in the initial onslaught were getting a working over now as the two giants went toe to toe.

Furn tried to pry open his eyes further to it, but with his vision so fuzzy he might as well have been watching a rugby game with both teams wearing the same uniform. A kick came out of nowhere, thumping into his forehead. It must have been McNaught, for he was the expert at kicking one person while fighting another. There was no way Furn was keeping his eyes open any longer.

22

'Freeze!'

Riley had his gun trained on a bloodied Johnny Condrey, who was stepping out the door of the wrecked apartment with Furn flung over his shoulder; through the gaping hole in the window behind them the end theme to the Elvis Presley film was blaring.

'Don't shoot,' replied Condrey. 'I'm not trying to steal your man. I'm simply taking him to the busted-up cop collection point.'

'I'm okay,' Furn called out from behind his back. 'Just a slight headache. And waiting for the feeling to return to my legs.'

Condrey lowered him onto the cobbled walkway, next to where Nashy was attending to Purvis, plugging the bullet hole in his shoulder with a blood soaked handkerchief.

Furn rolled back luxuriously. Sometimes a bed could be equally as comfortable as this street. Sometimes but not often.

Condrey straightened up again to see that he still had Riley's gun trained on him. 'So, you know me then?'

'Yeah, I know you,' Riley replied.

'If you did, you'd be aware there are much better reasons to shoot me than this. I even put his pistol back into his holster. In normal circumstances I would have blown that guy's head all over the wall and let the pistol sit nice and easy in your unconscious man's hand. It wouldn't have even be a frame up 'cause cops just get promotions for things like that.'

Riley flicked his gun toward the shattered window. 'McNaught's in there?'

'That's his name? McNaught? Makes sense 'cause he's come to naught. He's in there resting up for his day in court.'

'Resting?'

'Well, not exactly. My method of restraint predates the Iron Age. They didn't use handcuffs in those days. If they didn't want someone to move, they clobbered them on the head.'

'Would you kindly bring him out here.' Riley tossed him his cuffs. 'This isn't the Iron Age. Call out if you need some help.'

'Sure. I'd be in breach of my parole if I didn't fully cooperate with a law enforcement officer. Although I might be already be in trouble if you count what I did in there as associating with a known felon.'

'Do it, will you,' shot back Riley. He knelt down over Purvis. 'How's he doing?' he queried of Nashy.

'Tell me an ambulance is coming,'Nashy replied.

'Yeah, but we underestimated McNaught,' Riley rued. 'I'd have had the ambulance camped on Cumberland Street if I'd known any better. That's the siren now.'

Nashy painfully clutched her ribs as she shifted position.

Riley looked from the eerily quiet apartment to Furn. 'You put Condrey away a couple of years. Now he's out saving your butt. What's the connection? He liked prison that much?'

Furn stood up as gangly as a newborn giraffe and pulled out his pistol. 'Let's find out.'

He walked into the apartment. Condrey was casually rolling an unconscious McNaught along the floor with his feet. He gave the pistol the barest glimpse.

'Someone should explain to this guy when you throw someone through a window the slower the better. Makes a lot more mess.'

'Why did May send you? How did you know we were here?'

Condrey toyed with the handcuffs, keeping a foot on McNaught. 'How about the color coordination in this place. I always wondered what kind of person bought a pink leather sofa, and now I know. He's flat on his face behind it. If there was another window in this room, I would be of a mind to throw him through it.'

A howl of siren announced the ambulance onto the scene. Condrey dropped the handcuffs onto McNaught's chest. 'You weren't really expecting a gangster like me to make a citizen's arrest, were you? I'm going to take a walk before the more serious sirens get here. Saving cops like you is probably a parole violation in itself.'

Furn watched him leave the apartment. His gun aimed itself at McNaught the way a conjurer's rod pointed at underground water. He handcuffed him just as he started to rouse. He wasn't much to look at with a bloody nose, a fat lip and puffed up eyes. Furn hauled him to his feet. 'Come on, sucker. I've got good news for you. Where you're going you'll find it's a living statue's paradise.'

'You weren't the one that took me down,' spat McNaught, 'so shut your trap.'

'That's true. But the second best thing was being there to see it.'

On the way to steering him out the front door, Furn heard stirrings from behind the pink sofa.

'Stay there,' he called out at the woman. 'I'll get someone to look at you.'

There were plenty of paramedics around Purvis. Furn tapped two that weren't doing much and alerted them to the collateral damage.

Purvis was already in a stretcher and hooked up to an IV drip. His hair was soaked in perspiration. His cheeks were sandblasted marble. Looking at him, Furn couldn't help but feel better in his own condition.

'Leave him with Azu,' said Riley through gritted teeth. 'This is her crime scene. You and I are going to Melbourne. You have concussion, so you're in the backseat with Wragg.' He grabbed McNaught by the shirt. 'You'd better look up 'cause you're about to lose your sky for a very long time.' He slapped him out of his comeback at the first word.

Nashy arrived, taking McNaught's arm and there was an exchange of handcuff keys with Furn.

'This catch is so rotten even fishers would notice the smell,' said Furn.

'Do you still have Dr Dae Chul's phone number?' asked Nashy of Riley. 'They're taking Purvis to Saint George Hospital.'

'Sure,' replied Riley. 'With the business we're in I have him on speed dial.' He stepped into space, pulling the phone from his jacket. 'First, I'm going to call in all units. This crime scene is your reward for a job well done, so make the most of it.'

Furn started towards Wragg Dokomad, though Nashy caught him by the arm and whispered into his ear, 'There's another crime scene I enjoyed more than this one. I'm going to miss it.' Her breath was warm and sweet and then she let go. And that was that. No parting exchanges except for their handcuff keys.

Furn used his to uncuff Dokomad from the picket fence. Dokomad's face was more drawn out than in his picture. Dark oily hair and foggy blue blobs of oil for eyes. A slit chin and a cold, pale complexion that showed no affection for sunlight. Its docile expression, however, was just a rouse. The instant his hand was free he exploded to life, putting a tablet into his mouth.

'Get it!' Riley screamed.

But it had already been swallowed. The mouth then sneered victoriously.

'Don't worry, it's not a suicide pill,' he said. 'Why would I want to do that? I'm a paid up life member of the Sapiens.'

'Who told you that?' murmured Furn.

'Nice try. I'll tell you when I'm ready.'

Furn reset the handcuffs and frisked him; he came up with a mobile phone and a wallet containing a forged driver's license, someone else's cash cards and five Sapien calling cards scrawled out in the customary red ink. Furn took particular notice of the calling cards.

Dokomad chuckled threateningly. 'That's what I'm talking about.'

Riley took them out of Furn's hand, added them to the three he had found on McNaught. 'For every one of these there's a deplorable criminal act left uncommitted. That helps coagulate the blood we have spilled.' He glared at Dokomad. 'That wasn't a vitamin pill either, was it? A global positioning device? Well, your friends are welcome to join us. We'd be happy to meet every last single one of them.'

23

Nashy had possessed the foresight to stock the heavily converted Mitsubishi High Speed Vehicle with an abundant supply of headache relievers. Furn washed them down with a whole can of ice cold ginger beer. With Riley at the wheel they were flying down the Hume Highway. Melbourne was still at the bottom of the list of destinations on the shot out street signs, but the kilometres were being shed. Visibility was clear. Sunlight would accompany them to the state border. Fairfield Military Hospital was reachable by midnight.

Wragg Dokomad, sharing the backseat with Furn, had reverted to the quiet ways he had shown when handcuffed to the picket fence back in the Rocks. Until his medication took effect, Furn was happy to leave it like that. In the back of his mind, however, thoughts of the global positioning bug he swallowed continued to churn. They could force feed him laxatives until his system cleared the way his conscience probably never would. And time would bring their enemies, whether they were headed for their doorstep or not.

Towns were ticked off with their road signs flashing by and new ones were promptly announced. Only Canberra bore any significance to Furn. Somewhere amongstits wide leafy streets, where politicians resided in every second house and rented off the rest, was the abode carrying the names of Azu Nashy and Michael Durant on the same telephone answering machine. A place with workout equipment and pets. And a mat to wipe your feet before entering. All those things that made a house come alive. It was just too bad that excitement, travel and freedom were the things that brought a relationship alive. Furn couldn't see how such things might coexist. Or was it simply that once a relationship had boiled all that was left was for it to simmer. Going past Canberra gave Furn a nagging feeling of unease.

He eventually shook it off with a glance at the man beside him, the living, breathing vindication of the RIP. No one in responsibility would speak favourably of the unit, would want to see it continue, would even return its calls, but the paychecks would keep rolling in every month and the assignments would keep being whispered into ears in back corridors. Furn would use his next paycheck to get a nice, big mat for wiping feet on. Then he would meet someone with muddy shoes to vindicate that.

Wragg Dokomad was the one who broke the silence, somewhere during the endless kilometres of brown paddock between Goulborn and Albury, some four hours into the journey. 'You really should let me go,' he said.

Riley was consumed by the white lines of the highway. I

'Go ahead and explain yourself,' Furn snapped instead. 'I'll weigh it up against the two mates who got shot looking for you.'

'The Sapiens are coming to rescue me,' said Dokomad. 'You may be of a mind to blow their heads off. The only problem with that is they're innocent.'

'Innocent?'

Furn's eyes narrowed into a glare and Riley's head tilted fractionally away from the road.

'Everyone was so shocked by her memoirs about her gangster dad that they didn't realise it was actually intended as a tribute,' continued Wragg. 'It's ironic that it brought her the trust, respect and, most crucially, the complete submission necessary for deep hypnosis.'

Despite his scruffy appearance and eyes that blinked as though there were a tax on it, he spoke articulately and levelly. Even ashtrays could be made of crystal.

'Those Sapien signatures mean more than you might think. They were written by Dr Pei's subjects during deep hypnosis. As a kind of graduation ritual. Only those who have most readily succumbed to her treatment have earned the privilege.'

Furn laughed scoffingly. 'You're saying she's turned her patients into killer zombies willing to do her bidding?'

'Programmed to do her bidding. If you consider the kind of person drawn to psychiatric assistance in the first place; the mentally unstable, those who strongly believe there is something wrong with the wiring in their heads and are receptive to doing something about it.

'That phone you took off me was the means to signal Dr Pei that we had been uncovered. The pill, as you correctly suspected, was so that she knows where to find me.'

Furn frowned. 'Why are you being so forthcoming? We haven't even poked you with a stick and you're telling us all this stuff. Is it because you want to scare us? Well, if we wanted idiotic diatribes about all things calamitous, we'd tune into talkback radio.'

'If you'd like. But you would only find they are talking about Dr Pei too. The moment I gave the signal on my phone she activated the Sapiens to put on a final big show. She intends to sell her expertise in South America or perhaps Asia. This will be a demonstration of the kind of service she can provide. Complete mind control.'

'And they're coming to rescue you?' asked Riley, a hint of concern in his voice.

'That is highly likely. Dr Pei is a criminal genius and ruthless but we have also had personal relations and I think she will take care of me. If she wants to get me out, she could certainly arrange it. But the majority of Sapiens are probably preoccupied right now knocking off their company accounts, daddy's safe, and maybe a jewelry store thrown in; basically, doing Dr Pei's bidding. They've been programmed to drop the taking off at designated points, then go to a cafe for a couple of cappuccinos before turning themselves in to the police.'

'If you're right, I suppose I'll get to read about it.'

'Yes, you will. Dr Pei is a head space pyro-technician and she's rigged up quite a show. The daughter that out did her father, that's what she wants the world to know. She has no interest in hiding.'

'We'll see,' said Furn. 'But you'd better brace yourself. Some shadows are too big to walk out of. You're a victim of that.'

'Ted Bundy, The Boston Strangler, there are plenty of cases in which hypnosis has been used to help solve a crime,' Riley chimed in. 'But it is only the Jim Joneses of the world that have effectively used covert mind control to commit a crime. And you're saying that Dr Pei has been effectively keeping up with the Joneses?'

The tone of voice reminded Furn of his childhood family road trips when they were just reaching the point of turning sour, which inevitably they always did.

Dokomad seemed pleased that he had drawn both cops into the conversation. 'I don't know what buttons she pushed to get people to do what she wants them to do. Did you know she works for Military Intelligence?'

Furn glanced at Riley and then back to Dokomad. 'How did she get her hooks into you?'

'What drew me to her? She's a palmist. All good psychiatrists have a psychic bent.'

'Isn't it the other way round?'

'The first time I met her it was through my brother. She offered to read my palm and it was the first thing she said that won me.'

'Yeah? What were they?'

'She said, "You've got potential".'

'Congratulations. But it's not all good news as the government feels the same way.'

'The government is just a thing. It's the people that get the nightmares. Only the most eminent and innocent Sapiens will have qualified as my rescuers. This being a vehicle borne operation she will have had a pool of ambulance drivers, traffic cops, racing car drivers to call on. The most dangerous are probably female. Dr Pei has significant appeal amongst them. These things I wasn't meant to be telling you. At any rate, not if you were regular cops. I was supposed to merely sit back and wait to be plucked from whatever predicament I happened to be in. But you guys are the RIP. You don't have a friend on the force and you're exposing yourself all the way to Melbourne. You've got me, but are you really willing to do what it takes to keep me? Are you really going to try killing your way through to the guilty?'

Furn pulled out his pistol and let it set between Wragg's eyeballs. 'I won't recoil as much as the pistol. Did you know in an Indonesian firing squad only one shooter is issued a live round? The rest are firing blanks. That way everyone and no one is the killer. Even if your friends are coming out of Melbourne to intercept us, you have an hour or two to convince me my round is the live one and the condemned doesn't deserve it.'

'How do I do that?'

'Tell me about your brother.'

24

It was another hour and a hundred and fifty kilometres closer to Melbourne before Wragg spoke again, out in the open spaces of Goulborn's dairy country, where the first headlights of the evening were emerging upon the highway to replace the slow fading day.

'Did you know homosexuality is the root of the vampire legend? The victims are the perpetrators, cast out into immortal shame, feeding on the blood of others, shunned and repulsive, so unnatural that their reflections are not even present in the mirror. And then a man came to feed on Gustav. A Jewish Asian male communist by the name of Kevin. Clearly, my brother choosing him as lover was a cry for help. And it was time for his protector to sharpen the stake.'

'With Dr Pei's help?'

'She explained that curbing lust in the unreceptive mind would take time, even with the latest artificial reality mind shaping techniques. But creating fear is the surest thing in all hypo-therapy. She made me believe that I had the capability to do it.'

'That is how you became a Sapien? What alternative punishment did you dish out to the unfortunate lover?'

Wragg laughed callously. 'Gangsters pull out the teeth of the murdered to prevent identification. But being a dental assistant I prefer my patients still alive when I work on them - at least, he was alive to begin with.'

'It was you that made the killing,' snapped Riley. He eased the Mitsubishi into the slow lane for the first time since leaving Sydney. 'Furn, how's your head? Are you up to a stint at the wheel?'

'Sure,' said Furn readily.

'Don't answer so quickly. We're getting near the hot zone. It probably won't be safe to swap again before Fairfield Hospital.'

'All the more reason to make the swap now. You've gone over halfway. I'm fresh and I've had enough of playing eye-spy in the backseat.'

'Very well, then.' He rested the vehicle into the next emergency breaking lane that came along. A sharp clap of pain remonstrated through Furn's head as he ventured to his feet. He kept it to himself. Riley meanwhile stretched out his spine and swung into the passenger seat.

'I need a piss,' was Wragg's hostile greeting.

Riley got him out the car, handcuffed one arm to the roof pack-rack and waited while the front of the car including the windscreen received a petulant soaking.

'With compliments,' murmured Wragg rezipping.

Riley cuffed his hands back behind his back and paid special attention to securing him in his seatbelt. The road ahead was going to be all acceleration and suspension. Once the backseat was set, Furn wasted no time in getting underway. The powerful engine and state of the art steering system turned the highway into an endless playground slide.

'Kevin Chuong was the name of your brother's partner,' said Riley knowingly and without delay, as though this was why he had wanted the backseat and why he had done up the seatbelt so tight. 'He disappeared around the same time you did. Only he is yet to turn up again. Your brother is convinced you gave him an acid bath. He says he has evidence.'

'Possibly. I may have left the odd hint lying around,' said Wragg. 'How else would he have known to mend the error in his ways. Our father's suicide was not even a wakeup call, so I knew I couldn't risk being too subtle. Not that he went to the cops, now did he? I don't hear anyone arresting me for murder.'

'No, you don't. Gustav has taken a leaf out of your book. Severe alternative punishment. You've made it easier for me to tell you what shape your family tree is going to take, if you care to hear it.'

You couldn't tell a killer just by looking at him, but the way a killer looked at you was a whole different experience.

'I've been out of the family loop a while. Why don't you fill me in?'

'Gustav was attending a convention in Geneva when he complained of feeling unwell. He was misdiagnosed as having a kidney stone. His condition continued to deteriorate and on return to Australia he went for a second opinion. It turned out be a severe urinary infection. Pseudomonesy Aeruginose bacterium. It led to septicemia in his limbs. Both hands were amputated.'

'That's what you've been told?' Dokomad chuckled. 'My brother works for Military Intelligence. Which means there is nothing you should believe, nothing that is likely to be true.'

'Ever heard what a PONI is?'

'Why? Was my brother buggering with them too?'

'People Of National Interest. Your brother is Australia's top toxicologist. It puts him at the front of the queue for organ transplants. And he even gets to hand pick his donor, if you don't mind the pun. The tricky part was finding the surgeon with the necessary expertise and easy morality. We've got one on ice for another four days.'

Wragg's face drained of colour as he realised the gravity of what was being laid out before him. 'Not a chance. This is a civilised country.'

Riley shook his head and pointed out the window. 'Out there it might be. But for the Rogue Intercept Police it's just a view.'

He was well aware that in this instance full disclosure without a sedative was nothing short of mental torture. In a flash he stabbed Wragg's bicep with a syringe he had been carrying. Wragg's eyes sighed closed almost immediately and his head lolled awkwardly against the headrest.

'Gustav has vowed to redeem his brother by using his hands to make the world a better place,' said Riley to Furn. 'And probably to take another lover as well.'

Furn gave him an incredulous look 'Maybe Wragg's got a point about people trying to mess with our heads. Do you really think a world leading toxicologist goes to Geneva and catches septicemia? It seems to me just as unlikely as a world renowned psychologist having personal relations with a patient.' He glanced at the scrunched up, gaping mouthed Dokomad in the rearview mirror. 'Well, a patient like that, anyway. He's definitely had his head messed around with. There's no other way to explain a criminal confessing to murder in the backseat of a police car. Perhaps, we should put on the police radio and find out if it's true the Sapiens are on a rampage.'

'Leave it,' replied Riley, pointedly. 'We've got our man. So, let's just concentrate on the delivery.' He paused a moment. 'Hell, we've paid a high enough price for it.'

'We missed Breeze at the Rocks today,' conceded Furn. 'Has he left for France yet?'

Riley pushed Dokomad further away from him and glanced at his watch. 'He'll be in the air at the moment. We did miss him today. It got messy. Though Condrey was a fair substitute. You might want to explain that when this is over. I'd like to hear how a convicted armed robber came to be your backup.'

They roared into Albury Wodonga, the largest of the Victoria and New South Wales border crossings and a halfway point on their journey. The Hume Highway cut right through the town in a clear, direct path such that the street signage was almost entirely dedicated to luring motorists off it: to the awaiting fast food restaurants, hotels and bars – or, at least, those were the signs catching Furn's attention. His eyes, however, were still firmly trained upon the road and he did not fail to notice the old woman step in front of the Mitsubishi clutching a large chunk of concrete to her chest. Despite the blazing headlights upon her, she bore all the serenity of a gardener rearranging rock features on a Sunday afternoon.

'Watch it!' Riley was suddenly screaming into Furn's ear.

Furn remained calm, though he knew the concrete block, with the woman coming along for the ride, was destined for the front windshield in what would likely be a lethal impact. One of Pei's Sapiens sent out on a search and destroy mission? Probably. In the split second before impact, Furn realised he could veer to the right and risk oncoming traffic or veer to the left where pedestrians, power poles and parked cars might be lurking. He chose the inside turn on nothing more than instinct, mounting the footpath and bracing for impact. The high performance tires and shock absorbers absorbed the curb with such a soft touch Furn was vague on where it was under the vehicle; but the passenger door scraped along the corrugated iron of a panel beater's shop front, including a well weathered sign listing the company name and trading hours. The head lights caught a patch of silver reflector tape. Furn focused on the large wheelie bin directly ahead. His foot strengthened on the brake and his eyes closed against the looming encounter with an airbag. The impact was heavy and there was all the commotion of having hit a Jack-in-the-box. At least Furn was spared that mouthful of airbag. Much of the impact seemed higher than the bonnet. Overhead, a primitive sunroof was being torn out.

There was a hideous scream and Furn yanked open his eyes a leg in a bunched up stocking disappearing over the windscreen. The concrete block tumbled along the roof and down the other side, smashing heavily onto the footpath with the broken body of the old woman not far behind.

'She stepped back into us,' cried Riley in horror. As the car came to a stop, he added, 'It was pure luck the concrete block went over the roof. It could have taken your head off.'

Before Furn could catch his breath, there came a hit to the side window, sounding like a misdirected bird. But he felt tiny the glass shards down the back of his shirt and he realised someone was taking potshots.

'Ambush!' he cried, ducking low and pulling out his pistol.

Another shot whipped by overhead, taking more glass with it.

'I see him,' said Riley, having pulled Dokomad down onto his lap. 'Crossing the road at 3 o'clock.'

The shadowy, overweight man was approaching calmly, his pistol aimed from the hip.

'Take him!' Riley declared, hampered in reaching for his own pistol by Dokomad's dead weight.

Furn swung low at the shooter, superimposing onto him the image of a firing range target, the way he had been taught by Toothless Jock when he wasn't glueing guns to his hand. Jock always had his charges blindfolded throughout his sessions, varying the transparency of the blindfolds as he saw fit. 'There is good and bad visibility in a fight,' he would say, 'but it is never clear'.

The shooter dropped with Furn's first round, ominously limp. No scream. No clutch. That was another Jockism: 'The good gun does not make peace, only quiet.'

Riley sensed it, and his movements slowed. 'Well done. But get him off the road. Him and the woman both. We don't want to get caught up in a crime scene. And keep your head down in case there are more of them.'

Gun first, Furn hurried out the car. There was no need to check for a pulse. Minus the top of the head, it didn't much matter what the heart was doing. A set of headlights was approaching from the distance. Furn crudely dragged the corpse by its ankles, leaving a red line just as thick as the road's white ones. He did not feel much like a cop doing it. By the time of the panel van's passing the body was dumped on the footpath a few metres away from the old woman's.

Riley's first action outside the car was to pick up the wheelie bin, which had flown a couple of metres along the road, its spilt contents revealing a lot about the panel beaters' takeaway food preferences.

'What a mess,' said Furn. 'Shall we call it in?'

'They came at us from the dark and that's the way we're going to leave them,' said Riley grimly. 'Dokomad is our sole objective.'

A small convoy of headlights was approaching now. Riley surveyed the bodies and was confident the lack of street lighting and a slight decline in the roadside would combine to conceal the bodies from all but the most observant of passersby. One of the old woman's arms, however, was sticking up. Riley flattened it down with his shoe heel just as the convoy, headed up by a removalist van, streaked by.

Furn joined him by the corpses, his hand, lost inside his jacket at gun level. 'This Paz Yolando, the retired rally car champion,' he murmured, standing over the male corpse.

'You recognise him?' murmured Riley.

'His name's on the Corvette number plate across the road.'

Riley gave the body a closer look. It was dressed in a black leather jacket, grey t-shirt, blue jeans and a dig shiny belt buckle. 'No wonder they could make such quick time up from Melbourne. If I remember correctly, he got booted off his team several years ago for speeding through a school zone well intoxicated.'

'With a worse for wear police captain's eighteen year old daughter along for the ride, which, unfortunately for him, the media found all very salacious.'

'I heard about it.' Furn shook his head pityingly. 'As far as I can recall the court ordered him to attend counselling.'

'My freelance crime writer friend tells me Gerr Doolan has come out of retirement with the single purpose of destroying the RIP.'

'Whose Doolan?'

'The Sydney Times muckraker. Made his name by getting Task Force Chief Odom reassigned as a night watchman for haggling over the price of a bong at his local primary school's annual flea market. He wouldn't bother pulling out his keyboard again unless he was confident he could top that.'

'So, that's what happened to Odom?'

'Don't you ever read the newspaper?'

'Not since they stropped wrapping my fish and chips in them.'

'Well, we'd better be careful. Doolan's idea of fine print is his name under the headline.' Riley shook his head admonishingly at the two bodies. 'If we stay we'll get buried along with them. But if we drive off there's no way it won't get out. Our vehicle has no a intercept directive on it through NSW and Victoria, which means a lot of cops in a lot of patrol cars have a nice little tip to sell to Doolan when he inevitably comes calling. An autograph on a nice, healthy check – the kind that clears through the bank easier than it does the conscience.'

The mobile phone in Paz Yolando's jacket began to ring to Beethoven's Number Nine Symphony. Riley got blood and cerebral muck on his fingers as he retrieved it. It was listed as an unknown caller. Riley gave the phone a quick shake and answered it.

'Yeah?'

'Did you get Wragg?' It was a female voice, the vocal chords as tight as straggle-wire.

Riley supposed it was Zulma Pei though doubted he would have gotten very far if he asked. He lowered and hardened his voice and tried to talk like he imagined a rally car driver would. 'He's hurt but we got him. We're bringing him to Melbourne.'

The call abruptly went dead.

'Maybe she got another call,' snarled Riley and put the phone into his pocket.

Another gaggle of headlights streaked by.

'So we're not calling this in?' murmured Furn, still not finished with gaping at the crime scene.

'No,' said Riley dryly.

'That'll makes it a hit and run of a sweet old lady and the murder and dumping of a well-known rally car driver.'

'Sounds ugly, I know, but with Dokomad passed out in the backseat, we don't want to be stuck here answering questions.'

'Better here than in a court of law.'

'It won't come to that. We've got a set of spare number plates in the boot. Ones that can't be traced back to the RIP. And there are other ways to disguise a car, such that Doolan and the like could never connect it back to the police.'

'You're not talking about a coat of paint, are you?'

Riley shook his heads. 'There is an infamous protected witness lurking amongst the police ranks. Known only as 206B. A hardened lieutenant of the Bay City Killers street gang, who helped put away Stir Delaine for murder on the condition he would have a free pass into the cops on his twentieth birthday.'

Furn's face was impassive. 'So what?'

'Lander of the Protective Witness Program was the only one who knew his identity and it was one of the few things he neglected to mention in his suicide note.'

Furn folded his arms impatiently. 'These bodies are starting to smell.'

'The point is, when I drafted you into the RIP, I wasn't entirely assuming you were 206B, but now I think I'm counting on it.' Riley raked over Furn's reaction the way archaeologists might brush away at sand. There was an unmistakable cheek twitch, its meaning as real as the hieroglyphics on the walls of an obscure ancient tomb. It gave Riley confidence. 'If we're going to see this case through, we can't afford to get bogged down on the highway.'

'Well, if we're stretching our legs with a few yarns,' said Furn, 'let me tell you a story, about a father taking his son to buy an ice cream on his fourth birthday and deciding to drop into the races on the way. The youngest mare in Race Two was a sure thing to the knowledgeable punter. The race was run, the patrons screamed and the father's meagre stake money was promptly turned into a healthy winnings. Now he had enough for a double scoop of birthday treat. But why not throw in a trip to the zoo as well? There was a filly in Race Four he fancied. The zoo trip was scuttled by a stutter at the opening gate. Conservative betting in Race Five and Six and he was at least back to an ice cream. The only problem was two hours had flown by at the track and he had left his son in the back seat of the car.'

'Your birthday is in the middle of summer, isn't it?' mused Riley. 'Is that why you're called Furnace?'

'Pronounced dead on my fourth birthday in the backseat of my father's car.' Furn shook it off. 'Since then I've learned to drive.'

Riley took from his pocket the one phone that did not belong to the recently dead and placed a call. 'We'll be late,' was all that he said.

25

The new number plates read EF683. The first crime committed in their name was a drive-thru bottle shop hold up in downtown Albury. It wasn't clean. Furn made the stupefied clerk take off his Nike runners and socks and then busted his nose with the soft rubber soles.

'Why did you do that for?' the clerk cried.

'Just did it,' Furn taunted as he tied him to a shelf, one sock per wrist.

He knew it was all too lame, but the less cop-like he acted the better.

Riley was meanwhile clearing out the till and the handkerchief he had over his face was causing him to sneeze. 'A car has just pulled in out front,' he shouted. Let's get out of here.'

'Yeah, but do you want something?'

Riley paused. 'Bacardi.'

'That shit?' Furn slapped the clerk across the cheek. 'Where's the Bacardi?'

The clerk's finger started to point, but was not fast enough for Furn's liking.

'Forget it. I'll just take another bottle of Jack. Sorry I punched your nose. At least you can't smell your shirt the way I can.'

Furn caught up to Riley in the Mitsubishi and started to remove the blue check handkerchief he was wearing outlaw style over his face.

'Leave it on,' said Riley. 'We're going to start some fires and it'll help you breathe through the smoke.'

Furn wasn't sure if he was joking, but barely twenty minutes later they had doused the Haters motorcycle gang's clubhouse in petrol and set it ablaze. The second target for arson was a portable classroom in the Wodonga Heights Secondary School.

Riley reveled with the glow of fire upon his cheeks. 'That will give the investigating task force hours of fun in cross matching suspects.'

'If we've got time, there's a juvenile detention centre down the road I'd like to give the same treatment,' replied Furn.

'Forget it. That might just put them back on our scent. A little too close to home, I'm afraid. Let's get out of here.'

*

Their flight down the Hume Highway was marked by only minor traffic violations and misdemeanors: running red lights, driving off without paying at service stations and dropping down to the speed limit at only the sharpest of corners.

All the while they were waiting for an all units call to me sent out on them over the police band. What they got was a blow by blow account of a crime spree sweeping across Melbourne. Bank robberies, house break-ins, crash and grabs at jewelry stores. No doubt the Sapien checks were being cashed. With all the proceeds to collect it was highly unlikely Dr Pei would have the time or inclination to launch another rescue attempt on Wragg even if she did suspect he was still in police hands.

It wasn't until they were the thirty kilometres from Melbourne that Furn and Riley got to hear their own handiwork over the radio.

'All units to intercept a red sports utility EF683, wanted in connection to a double homicide in Albury. Believed travelling on the Hume Highway, Melbourne bound. Last known location was Drouin. Special Operations Group is on standby. Approach with extreme caution.'

'Do you know the way to the Craigieburn safehouse?' murmured Riley.

'I didn't think there would ever be a reason to know the way to Craigieburn,' Furn replied.

'Take the next left. There isn't much of it so keep your eyes open.'

Furn made the turn two hundred metres later. It was 11pm and the Craigieburn backwoods were all but deserted. Disturbing sleeping roads, the Mitsubishi's headlights cut through the stillness. Riley's directions kept coming, every bit as steady and coherent as a GPS navigation system. They drew from the darkness a dusty track, then a driveway with a dilapidated letter box that birds had been dropping abstract feces on. At the end of the driveway was a brown brick house and attached garage.

'There's a fuelled up Honda NSX in the garage,' said Riley. 'The keys are in the ignition. Can you take Wragg the rest of the way on your own? I've got to get this thing particular vehicle cleaned up and ready to return to the Feds. And it's going to take more than a cake of soap.'

Furn glanced around his headrest at Wragg's slumped over form in the backseat. 'He's got more juice in him than what we put in the tank.'

'He'll be out for another couple of hours. Tomorrow I want you out looking for Zulma Pei. She's about to become the biggest prize in law enforcement and finding her would be the answer to a lot of awkward questions we're no doubt going to be asked.'

'It will be a pleasure. Anything in the Red Line Files to give me an edge over all the police departments in the country that will be looking for her too?'

'She'll be smart enough not to worry her known addresses or friends. But if she is to take possession of all the bounty her Sapiens have been steeling for her, she will need to come out into the open at some point. And it is likely to be sooner rather than later.'

Furn parked on the lawn, the patchy yellow green grass was in need of a trim. He almost didn't see the toddler bicycle that had most likely been dumped there for effect.

'Yeah, I'll look for her,' he muttered. 'I would appreciate some time to sweat out of Wragg Dokomad what he knows. Perhaps, gathering up the loot was the very thing he was in charge of. That would be a more plausible reason why Pei might send people in to affect a rescue than any romantic inclinations.'

'Put that out of mind. Wragg goes straight to Fairfield. The people who want him we do not want to keep waiting.'

'Very well. But Pei is the one who put that old woman in my way, and given half a chance, I will be more than happy to replace that image with something else.' Furn went to the ignition and the engine died as peacefully as a fading centurion – even one that had lived a less than respectable life. A disturbed dog was barking a few doors down.

26

Three Military Police officers were waiting at the East entrance of the Fairfield Military Hospital. They were tall, solid and dour. One of them was holding an empty wheelchair. Furn leaned back against the silver Honda NSX and looked passed them, through the tall wire fence at the grey buildings beyond. His tiredness was stirred by the darkness of the scene and the dampness of the cold air.

'Your man is in the backseat,' he said. 'Help yourselves

The MPs efficiently, silently unloaded Dokomad into the wheelchair. One of the MPs remained back from the effort, keeping guard with his pistol drawn. As Dokomad was wheeled through the hospital gates, he held his hand out to Furn. 'The keys.'

Furn handed over the handcuff keys. The large barbed wire gate began closing the moment Dokomad was within the hospital grounds; it drew Furn's attention to the overhead surveillance cameras crisscrossing the area: the thought of the kind of people who would be peering through them was colder even than the pre-dawn mist.

Furn watched the MP join up with the rest of the party. He considered shouting out a warning about the tracking device wallowing around in Wragg's stomach. But there was something eerie about the lifeless building with the barred windows they were headed for. He didn't even want his voice going in that direction.

He got back into the Honda and drove. The car felt so much lighter on the drive away from the hospital. All those hours in hotel rooms he had spent memorising inward routes, now he could unravel them and expunge them. He drove home chewing on mints. The only real obstacle on the way was the Black Gate pub. He wouldn't have minded another crack at Jalice's affections. Then his thoughts were accosted in the same manner as he had been physically accosted outside its front entrance by that peculiar kangaroo killer. Had it been McNaught, the silver statue? Maybe some time down the track Furn would have the opportunity to pose the question to the man himself.

He let the idea sit on the 60 kilometre per hour speed limit awhile before discarding it to the streets. McNaught was going to get his fair share of premium penitentiary food and there was no bringing back the hapless kangaroo. So, Furn wouldn't press for a charge unless the prosecutors couldn't come up with anything better.

As Furn pulled into his North Balwyn driveway a good night's sleep was the only revenge he had in mind. His mail box was full of junk. How long had it been? Just a few days. Time always slowed away from home.

After some fidgeting with key and lock he was inside. He could smell something funky away in the darkness that needed washing. Something in the kitchen. He figured his nose could get used to it quicker than it would take to turn the tap. Pulling off his shirt he realised the same couldn't be said for his body. He stumbled to the shower, leaving the lights off - his eyes would not only have needed to adjust to the light but also all that light had to offer and he just wasn't in the mood. He had soap and water and that was enough, although a towel would have helped.

He bumped and cajoled his way to the bedroom, hoping he was air drying in the process. His knees touched mattress and the soft, fluffy pillow was exactly where he wanted his head to be. He rode it on a carefree journey into void. As far as Furn could tell, the only difference between sleep and death was that the former made you feel refreshed. Death, however, seemed on occasion to intercede and spoil things. Furn gasped awake, the pillow having become a couple of hands at his throat. Silver hands. It was very dark.

'It's okay, it was just a nightmare.' The woman's voice was gentle, soothing and then she kissed him on the lips. 'I wasn't going to do that until morning, but if all you're going to do is have bad dreams -' she kissed him again.

Furn was alert enough to place the voice before he started calling out names. It wasn't Nashy, the name most comfortable on his tongue, but the name was familiar all the same, recently so. He couldn't make out anything in the darkness bar a hazy outline that might have included a cascade of hair or merely his own blurry eyes.

He cumbersomely lifted his head off the damp pillow and his nostrils kicked into action. L'Occitane Fluer D'Acacia. He had experienced enough showers with that brand of soap to recognise it.

'You're sure you aren't one of them, May?' he croaked.

She giggled and shuffled against him. Furn was keeping his hands to himself but as far as he could tell she was matching him for nakedness.

'Haven't we broken up?'

'The keys still fit.'

'Locks don't keep people out. Not even in prison.' Furn's head sunk back into the pillow.

May Haken's hair, the luxurious flames of ginger, welcomed him there. A week ago it wouldn't have been particularly strange. In fact, there was nothing strange about break up sex except that her new boyfriend had all but saved his life earlier in the day. Her fingers lightly stroked up and down his chest.

'You're really not glad to see me?'

'Well, you and Johnny Condrey seem to come as a package.'

'What's wrong with Johnny? It's what you always wanted, your own personal bodyguard. Was it all that you hoped it would be?'

'He probably saved my life.'

'It wasn't only for your benefit. Having a gangster that's a little good and a police officer that's a little bad...there's no shape stronger than a triangle.'

Her hand was down around his loins: a salvage vessel laying claim to what it had retrieved from the depths.

'You followed me?' Furn asked, still trying to understand.

'I put a bug in your phone,' whispered May. 'Senator Cameron Law has them lying around. I was worried by all that bad press you were getting. I told Johnny to keep an eye on you. He understands. Access to the Prime Minister, the Federal Police, and, it goes without saying, the Red Line Files. You really are a man about town. A nice, sharp corner.'

Furn clamped down hard on the wrist of her probing hand. 'I'm not in your pocket if that's what you're getting at.'

May gently kissed him on his lips until he was reciprocating, then she nibbled on his ear. 'I'm in your bed.'

'Keep Condrey away from me,' Furn whispered. 'Things are going to get ugly.'

'Too ugly for the eyes of a convicted felon?'

'You're playing a dangerous game.'

'Okay, I'll keep him away for now. Anyway, I think we've made our point.'

Furn started to probe her body with his lips. 'Yes, you have.'

*

They had made love in the centre of the bed and then rolled off to different sides. That was the heart of their relationship.

Furn awoke in the morning to that beautiful ginger hair now in daylight. He was surprised that she was still there. Then he realised it was Sunday - the one day of the week she was not racing off at first light to take her part in the murky world of Senator Law.

Furn quietly pulled himself out of bed. The day after the Sapien tsunami, he had work to do. With most of his clothes scattered around various hotels, he was forced to do some time travelling as he got dressed in Levi 501s, a grey Diesel shirt and a fawn cotton jacket – the kind of plain clothes he used to wear before he became a plainclothes policeman.

From there, he went to the kitchen and put his mouth under the cold water faucet: what he didn't drink helped to wake him up. The presence of scratches and bruises was made evident by the flow of water. The lack of any searing stabs of pain, however, was what mattered. It meant Furn could get on with his day.

He returned to the bedroom and rummaged through his crumpled dirty laundry for his wallet, holstered pistol and mobile phone. It was a routine he had been through many times before and like always the pistol was full and the wallet empty. The mobile phone he dealt with last. No messages, just May's confession that it was bugged. He turned from it to her mop of hair cascading out from the bed covers. He must have stood there watching her sleep for a full minute. There were many things he could have done with that phone but what he did do surprised himself the most: he slipped it into his jacket pocket on his way out of the door.

27

Every library had its resident pedophiles. They could be as brazen as they were discreet. Known sites could be flagged at the counter and the cops summoned, but the pedophiles were a step ahead of that game. Only the unsophisticated or careless would ever get caught. Or those stuck in self-denial regarding the complicity of their actions. Barry Jewel considered himself one of the lucky ones: he revelled in being a social outcast. A five year old Cambodian girl didn't look any less beautiful knowing that everyone in any given moment would want him dead – except, of course, in the chat room.

One week out of prison and he had already reacquainted himself with all his favourite library computers and corners. The inner city ones, where his anonymity was preserved by a high turnover of users and staff; where no one looked each other in the eye - the tell-tale sign of self-contained perversion. No printouts, no memory sticks, no forwarding. Just peruse, cherish and repeat. There were hundreds of links, thousands of pictures, and Jewel would experience them all. But not today. It would take tomorrow and the next day and the next and the next. There was no greater challenge than insatiable desire.

Jewell, moist lipped, glanced from an intriguing blindfolded girl on a bed to his watch. Four o'clock. He had reached his ninety minute limit. It was a rule he never broke. Not unless he was in Pattaya, Kuta or one of his favourite other holiday spots. He set about deleting his history from the computer, covering his tracks, inserting a virus that would cast doubt on the testimony on the most sophisticated of computer forensic officers – not that it would ever come to that. Someone on another computer announced his existence with a cough. What was he up to? Even if he was a member of the community, Jewels would not want anything to do with him. Jewels was only interested in people when they were appropriately embedded in none too flashy usernames.

One of the few men in the history of marriage to be divorced for being too clean, he checked and rechecked that the computer had been absolved of him. Rubbing his prints off the keyboard was the important final step. He wouldn't sleep if he didn't.

Once satisfied, he left the library for a café across the street. The service was slow but what he was mostly paying for was a place to unwind, to think. He needed to find a way back deep into the game – which was the way his community referred to the so called normalcy behind which they could indulge their true inclinations. A high school teaching position had been a priceless cover. With a felony conviction, that was irretrievably lost. If a few more slaps from those police could have led to a full pardon rather than merely an early release, he would have gladly coaxed and submitted.

The latte was already cooling by the time it was brought to his table. His fingers were preoccupied with the business card the journalist had pressed into his hand at his front door earlier in the day.

Gerr Doolan. Freelance Journalist.

Jewels natural aversion to any sort of scrutiny, let alone from the press, had made him standoffish. On reflection, however, the encounter might have been more fortuitous than invasive. Doolan only seemed interested in the cops who had roughed him up. He had told him that they were called the Rogue Intercept Police and that they had a long history of brutality and misconduct. Apparently the Office of Police Integrity was hamstrung in acting against them. Doolan, spectacles planted on the tip of his nose, was taking it upon himself to rectify the situation.

Jewel had closed the door on him before the checkbook could make an appearance. Ten grand for an account of his nightmare interrogation at the hands of those cops was reasonable. And with his ex-wife no longer even accepting alimony payments he could stretch that out a long way. He could become a police brutality counsellor or some such nonsense. He could get back into the game in style. And the other advantage was that if the press built him up as a victim, it would near guarantee him immunity from his real transgressions. Once the press took him on board, their fates would be entwined: the self-serving media would seek to maintain their own standing in the community at all costs.

Jewel returned the business card to his wallet. He decided he would call the number at the bottom after his usual hour at the gym. Ten grand and he would talk. He took a sip of latte. He enjoyed his conspiracy more than he did the coffee.

The café was pleasant enough. A lot of wood and primary colours. The other customers could hardly fit into the small round tables with all their shopping bags. Undoubtedly a bunch of crap only as attractive as the mark down stickers on the price tags. Each to his own.

The sunshine that greeted Jewel out on the footpath was a call to walk the three kilometres to his one bedroom apartment in South Yarra. No need to rush. On a day like today, Melbourne, with its grand Flinders Street Station and Princess Street Bridge, was the most fabulous city in the world. So much atmosphere to soak up on the way home. And, to top it off, there was the pleasant stroll along the Yarra River, culminating in the Melbourne High School, where he was an old boy and where he often felt his own personal history was ruthlessly swallowed up into insignificance by the rich history of others - but today he could be more optimistic. Dear Doolan was going to make his name into something big. Something to bring up in the dinner parties he would be too big to attend. He was perfectly positioned to do just that. There was nothing a predator enjoyed more than being mistaken for a victim.

Passing the local skateboard park by the Yarra River, an imposing pack of bad mouthing youths was milling around. They were flicking cigarettes at each other, posturing and shouting in a hard, throaty tone. The only school that could possibly have retained such bad apples was reform school. Jewel held his line as he passed them, did not even flinch as he became the focus of their disdainful glares.

'Who's this idiot?' a towering beanpole murmured with his overgrown Adam's Apple.

'I think that's wallet in his back pocket,' taunted another. 'A nice, fat juicy one.'

Jewels didn't feel anything and he got to thinking that real fear might have been similar to measles in that you only had it once. Walking into the Ivanhoe branch on the Saint George's Credit Society for his first armed robbery had been his measles moment. He literally vomited inside his balaclava with his fear. Since then though, right through his subsequent arrest, trial and incarceration, and even that fateful interrogation with the Rogue Intercept Police, he had been unflappable. What he was doing now was still just a pleasant walk on a sunny day.

The wallet in his back pocket remained unassailed, the delinquents, warded off by his menacing countenance, returning to physically and verbally assaulting each other. Jewel hadn't done anything in particular to get out of a tight spot. He simply hadn't cared about it.

The strategy continued to be effective for the remaining twenty five minutes to his flat. There, Furn made his move.

'Busted!' he yelled.

He grabbed Jewel by the shirt and used his forward momentum to viciously fling him inside. Furn used him to rearrange the immaculately tidy living room, the way a bar pool player liked to spread the balls in an opening break. Jewel was smashed through glass cabinets, display vases and framed holiday photos of third world beach resorts. Furn didn't stop until he was too dizzy to continue, and then he dropped Jewel into a leather recliner.

'Child pornography,' he gnarled. 'You won't have many friends in the penitentiary playground.'

'What are you talking about?' Jewel tried to keep himself composed but his eyes couldn't refrain from widening when he realised who he was talking to. 'There's nothing in this apartment to connect me with anything of that nature.' His voice sounded meek.

Furn stood over the recliner with hands on hips. 'I know. Just a whole bunch of National Geographics. You don't mind if I borrow a couple?'

'You're nothing more than a thug and you're going to be exposed. The newspapers are onto you.'

'You talking about Doolan? He wants me but he ain't going to start quoting a pedophile.'

'Stop calling me that.' Jewel tried to get out of the recliner only to get punched back into it.

'I've been keeping you in seats a lot today,' said Furn, kneading the impact of the punch out of his knuckles. 'Your latte at the Venice Cafe was slow in coming because I was in the kitchen flashing my badge. I wanted to keep you occupied while I checked on your little adventures in the internet cafe. The staff at both premises were very cooperative. And the computer forensics officer accompanying me was also glad to help out. He couldn't say for sure what you were up to, but it was obviously very bad.' He methodically lit up a cigarette. He still considered himself a non-smoker; it was just a busy week. The smoke settled in his lungs like a London fog. 'Despite all your carrying on, this isn't the first time you've been accused of pedophilia, right? The silver statue has a sharp pair of eyes. You were loitering around the river, lecherously ogling all the little boys and girls out on their family excursions. McNaught spotted you. And the severe alternative punishment he enforced? Rob a bank and go to prison for it. You'd agree to that. Better than being placed on a sexual offender register. That would really curtail your social agenda.'

Jewel was still rubbing his inflamed chin. Perhaps he was hoping for a genie to pop out in the form of a suitable explanation.

'I, I....,' he muttered.

'Although the punishment was handsomely profitable for the Sapiens, it failed miserably in protecting the community,' continued Furn.

Jewel latched onto that. 'I'm only out of prison because of your gross misconduct.'

'I can do worse to put you back in.'

'It's not going to happen. And you know I can take a beating.'

'You are beaten. McNaught's in custody. He'll sell you out for a year or two off his sentence. Even in your so called reality, you could understand that.'

Furn sucked the guts out of his cigarette, watching him squirm.

'I've got something on the Sapiens,' Jewel said, his head slipping into the hand that had been doing the rubbing. 'The woman who runs it, I can give her to you.'

'Oh, yeah? What' s her name again? It seems to have slipped my mind.'

'Dr Zulma Pei. That's the only thing that'll come for free.'

'You're selling paper for gold. Dr Pei hasn't done anything to me personally except cajole an old woman into trying to take my head off with a concrete block. But all in all, the poor dear was trying to make herself useful.'

'Well, what have I done to you?'

Furn shunted the cigarette out of his mouth and ground it into the carpet. 'Nothing. Okay, here's a deal. If you try to negotiate, I'll probably just shoot you in the face. You can buy yourself twenty four hours by giving me what your mate Doolan would call a scoop. But if you blink twice I'm going to assume it's all bullshit and the deal's off.'

Apparently Jewel had some grand designs on those twenty four hours, for he responded in a hurry.

'Canter Collins, one of Pei's original partners in crime is currently residing in Toowoomba. He has a light aircraft license and a Cessna he uses for crop-dusting. Everyone thinks Zulma and her father disowned each other. That's why the cops will not even suspect something so ridiculously obvious. I can tell you where they're planning to fly. Papua. From there, who knows.'

'Sounds like a load of bull,' said Furn despite himself.

'If you're intending to stop them you're window of opportunity is running out fast. Pei is exceptionally efficient. She will already have collected all the loot from the drop off points and will be motoring up to Toowoomba as we speak. Your one saving grace is that she'll be sticking steadfastly to the speed limit. Obviously she won't want to risk getting pulled over.'

'How do you even know she's involved in the Sapien's? You were never her patient.Which doesn't surprise me. The screwballs that need counselling the most are the ones that never get it.'

'When you are getting blackmailed, you have a vested interest in getting some intel of your own. Following McNaught, all roads led to Zulma Pei. They were lovers. Between them they could have afforded a hotel room or two, but at least one of them had a fetish for bar toilets. I slept through the whole first term of high school keeping an eye on them.'

'And what about the rest of it?'

Jewel looked up at him, a spark of defiance lighting up his eyes. 'I'm good with the internet.'

'I see.'

'Now I've more than earned that twenty four hours. If you break the deal -'

Furn whipped out his gun and shot Jewel once in the stomach. Despite the silencer it had been a very fluid motion. Jewel lurched sideward, his face contorted in shock and agony.

'That shot should give you twenty four hours,' gnarled Furn, taking out his handcuffs. 'Guess I'll be a little too preoccupied to confirm it for myself. So, if you don't last that long, let me apologise in advance.'

28

Breeze was sitting up. A hospital gown didn't look good on anyone but this was a man who wore suede and cashmere. He was pale and his eye were drawn back in their sockets – too much time staring back at the gravity. At least, the machine he was plugged into seemed content in their work. For cops the alarm of impending death was the rush of adrenaline, in hospitals it was the slow sands of an egg-timer. Breeze was gazing out the window at the blue sky, daydreaming about that last helicopter rise with Soila Waneta; cruising over the city on whatever false presence he had conjured at the time. It was amazing how recently it actually was. Everything preceding those bullets in the back had immediately been diluted into distant memory.

Furn stepped into the room, his hand trailing behind in a knock. He was startled by the array of colours that greeted him; roses, gerberas, hydrangea and chrysanthemums of pinks, yellows and greens were all neatly wrapped with ribbons and raffia. Whether for good or bad, Breeze was still too sore to react to them, other than with a grizzly voice.

'Soila Waneta has been raiding the rooms of all the patients who have not outlived her shifts.'

Furn dropped into the one chair he had to choose from. 'I didn't think flowers came in your size. Are you sure none of them came from Riley. I'm worried about bugs, and I don't mean aphids.'

'He dropped around this morning but he wasn't sporting a bouquet. He was on his way back up to Sydney. Seems like McNaught has started to sing his way through interrogation. Naturally, he's trying to set himself up as a victim. He is standing by his claim, however, that he had nothing to do with clouting you over the head outside the Black Gate. Or that he had anything to do with poisoned kangaroo friend of yours, for that matter. He said, however, Nikki Savva might have had something to do with it. She was Pei's other chief enforcer. McNaught has gone into some detail about her. Apparently, her adopted parents were abusive, which gave rise to significant neuroses that Pei was able to take full advantage of. Riley went into it in considerable detail, in case I had some issues about being shot in the back by another cop or in giving some in return.'

'So, the poor girl was manipulated to death.'

'We shared the same shrink. Dr Matera. At some point he's going to have to answer for how Pei got hold of his session notes. If I had half a lung, I'd go ask him right now.'

'He can keep. There's someone more pressing.'

Breeze intently read his face. 'You've tracked down Zulma Pei.'

'Let's just say there's a lead. McNaught might be doing his best to give her up, but I wonder how much will actually stick to her. So, I've got some severe alternative punishment in mind. If any Sapiens survive the round up, they won't have a martyr in Pei. I'm going to ensure the taste of her own medicine is bitter.'

Breeze smirked cruelly. 'What did you have in mind?'

Furn instinctively checked that the doorway was still clear. 'It involves raiding a certain warehouse. I won't burden you with the details in case you decide to take early retirement. But I wish you could come along. The door opening abilities you showed at the Dale Street warehouse would definitely come in handy.'

'Can it wait a week?'

Furn shook his head. 'There's a twenty four hour window.'

'The only way I'm opening a door in that time is if I'm rammed through it in a wheel chair.'

'Your temporary replacement was even more temporary than we envisioned.'

'I heard.'

'So, I'm on the scout for someone else.'

'And?'

'Don "Tentative" Jenkins comes to mind. He's usually on the other side of the fence but that fence isn't so high.'

'No, it isn't.'

'And he's motivated. No one likes a friend being tortured to death. But he's your contact, so I'm here to ask.'

Breeze mulled over the idea a moment. 'Don't go back to the Authority Exchange. If you do, people will suspect he had something to say on the first visit.'

'Where else can I find him?'

'The Oxygen Darts Bar in Spencer's Lane. He's there a couple of hours a day. Don't bother flashing your badge there. The underground darts scene is every bit as shady as the Docklands itself. You could bet your left hand on a match if you were stupid enough. And if you failed to make good on a bet, that's exactly the kind of down-payment they would accept.'

Furn was glad to hear the enthusiasm percolating up from his wounded lung. 'Did Riley have anything else to add?' he queried, the red Mitsubishi with the dented front on his mind.

'He was just glad that McNaught brought you up in the interrogation. It justifies getting him involved.'

There was an admonishing grunt at the doorway. Soila Waneta folded her arms, her clenched wrists pressing into her ribs, her forehead bunched up in a frown.

'Helio needs to rest. If you want him well you should leave.'

'Sure.' Furn got up with a wink. 'We need him back. The bad guys have stopped looking both ways when they cross the street.'

'Step outside the room for one moment, nurse,' demanded Breeze as though he carried jurisdiction in this room.

Waneta complied only after her eyes latched onto him and swelled like ravenous leeches. Breeze and Furn couldn't help but appreciate the departing curves in the pristine white uniform.

'It must be important,' said Furn, to risk sending her thermometer a few centimetres in the wrong direction.'

'There's a bouquet at the back of the road that has a blue card attached. It's got a name and number and I actually think it was intended for me. Jock McClean of A-Z Demolitions. He would know how to force open a door with more than just an invalid's wheelchair. And he seems to appreciate the RIP's way of doing things. Take the card. Take the flowers too if you want to do me a favour.'

Red geraniums. The card was tied to the base with what appeared to be priming wire. Furn pulled it free and pocketed it. His mind was ticking over as though his ideas were hooked up to priming wire too.

'What's the warehouse?' said Breeze, starting to envy him.

'Hey, you're no longer dying. I don't need to humour you.' Furn smiled. 'You're not really quitting the RIP, are you?'

'Riley has given me until the Babar trial to think about it. Including adjournments, that should give me five months. I'm going home to see my son and hopefully he will not look through me in return. I have an uncle who owns a winery in the Beaujolais region. We could make a fresh start there. It would be a good life. It's a serious proposition.'

'Sounds nice. I'll have to sit down and give it some thought. But for now, there's a species of sapien about to go the way of the Neanderthals.'

Furn stepped out into the corridor of while fluorescent light and glistening grey floor.Soila Waneta had not retreated but a few steps. It was only now her arms uncoiled.

'Let me escort you to the elevator. For old time's sake.'

'What about Breeze?' murmured Furn. 'I get the feeling you'll be escorting him all the way back to France.'

'Do you want to know the saving grace for us girls in the trauma ward? The quality of male body we get to see is simply marvelous. All those pecs, biceps and six pack abs. You might get surprised by the girls' talk in the shower room.'

'I'd like the opportunity to find out.'

'Breeze passed the test,' continued Waneta, ignoring the quip. 'He has earned his Florence Nightingale. But there is no need to be jealous. Some of my single colleagues would enjoy the kind of man they would usually only get to appreciate in pieces. You got a number I could give them?' Waneta smirked. Her determined studious eyes were the consistency and colour of caviar. This wasn't the kind of nurse that battled through a shift and chain smoked in the downtime.

Furn pressed the elevator's down button. The light was only a few floors above and descending fast. He decided against giving her the number of his bugged cellphone. He didn't want Johnny Condrey crashing in anywhere else.

'I'll get back to you on that,' he said.

The elevator doors opened to a tired looking doctor nursing a clipboard.

'Get back to me in one piece,' said Waneta as Furn stepped in beside him. The doors started to closing and she hastily added, 'Or else you'll lose your novelty value.'

29

Dark royal blue carpet, varnished Honduran Mahogany wall panels, soft up-lighting on a caramel brown ceiling, a trophy cabinet with a golden smile of trophies; the only thing not impeccably stylish in the Oxygen Dart Bar's front reception was the balding, hook-nosed attendant who was only clearing the counter with a few centimetres to spare. Possibly a jockey in a younger day, he had the demeanor of someone used to communicating by whipping rumps: 'You want something?'

Furn figured he had been identified as a non-member. 'I've been led to believe that Don Jenkins is here.' He looked past the attendant to two velvet padded doors that were the same tone of blue as the floor. Little gold plaques made it clear which one opened to the playing area and which one to the cloak room.

'You don't even play darts,' snapped the attendant, roping Furn's attention.

'So?'

'You've got no business looking for him here.'

Furn took Breeze's advice and refrained from flashing his badge. 'Tell him Breeze's friend Furn is here to see him.'

'Do you know what the friends of people do in this place? U-turns back out the door.'

Furn was getting annoyed. 'My boot is going to fly past your ass and it's going to U-turn. Now, in case you didn't catch it the first time, the name is Furn. If it is a chore to remember, I can stamp it for you.'

The way the attendant's belligerence vanished suggested perhaps he may have in fact been the horse in a younger day. 'The door on the right,' he sighed. 'Mr Jenkins has the floor to himself.'

A dart's bar that used titles was not the kind of place Furn was expecting - where pints rested on guts to balance throws. He passed through the door to a dark passageway, more soft carpet and a whiff of musk. He had the feeling of arriving late at an upmarket cinema. The passageway quickly opened up to a lighter space whose dimensions were lost in a back wall of mirrors.

There were six dart boards lined against the cream playing wall. One board was lit up by a narrow beam emitted from an embedded ceiling light. Furn noticed cigarette burns in the wall around the board. Possibly the product of disgruntled players. The five darts in the board seemed arbitrarily scattered. The player in the fringe of the light had frozen in his delivery stance, immediately tuned into Furn's intrusion.

'The bull's eye is in the middle,' said Furn, taking another couple of steps.

Tentative Jenkins relaxed his dart hand. His voice was calm. I'm no Phil Taylor but it's not as bad as that. The game's called Round the Clock. I train with it.'

'Time for a break.'

Tentative edged a fraction further out of the light, his voice becoming more guarded. 'I was sorry to hear about Breeze. He didn't deserve it, not in the back, at least.'

'And Benzona didn't deserve what he got either. More than just a tattoo.'

'It's not surprising you're here alone. Another one of your partners recently bought it, didn't he?'

Furn's voice hardened. 'He's going to make it too. The bad guys don't seem to be shooting straight enough. Are you any different?'

Tentative pointedly scored a bull's eye with the remaining dart and strode up to Furn, pulling out a thin metal case from the inner pocket of his grey sports jacket.

Furn looked down at it and said indifferently, 'You offering me a cigarette?'

'Darts isn't just for recreation.' Tentative started to open the case but thought the better of it. 'Why are you here?'

'Rogue by name, rogue by nature. If you're serious about avenging the father of your tattoos, here's your opportunity.'

Tentative's eyes locked as though he was seeing a bull's eye in the centre of Furn's forehead. 'You want to go somewhere and talk about it?'

Furn pointed to the silhouette of chairs set aside for spectators. 'They'll do.'

'You're sure? This is my home turf and it could easily be wired for sound. Discussing something so incriminating here would clearly be ill-advised.'

Furn shrugged it off. 'I once had my own near death experience and I can't say that life became any the sweeter for it. Anyway, if we're going to work together, there needs to be an element of trust.'

Tentative flicked back his hair. 'Sure. And no need to worry. A lot of sensitive issues are discussed within these walls by some very serious people. A proprietor who dared to install listening devices would not live very long or die very well.'

'Maybe I should take up darts.' Furn dropped into one of the seats, finding the cushion to be about as forthcoming as had been the attendant.

'I've been reading in the papers that you do things differently,' said Tentative, taking up position a couple of seats down. 'What did you have in mind?'

'We've identified the ringleader of the Sapiens.'

'Who is he?' Tentative almost spat it out.

'A holding order has been issued on her at all international exit points, but she is well organised, planned and resourced. And even if we do apprehend her, there will not be a whole lot to implicate her.'

'So, you're going to shoot her?'

'I need to get my hands on some narcotics in a hurry.'

'How much are you willing to spend?'

'I think you misunderstand me. I'm not talking about a financial transaction.'

'I'm no drug dealer, but if you want to get yourself killed, I can introduce you to a couple.'

'Ever heard of the Hyun gang?'

'That's the type I had in mind. A crew with a nasty imagination, but customers who pay their way have nothing to worry about. You sure you ain't paying for it?' Tentative ran his finger along the smoothness of his oily moustache. 'Listen, if you want a shipment of blow, why don't you shake down the Mexican trade ambassador. You busted his son down at the docklands, right? A good behaviour bond for Babar will be worth a whole lot of smack.'

Furn shook his head. 'Babar's trial will help get Breeze's mind off the bullets in his back. And the calibre of lawyer that will cross-examine him will help him get his focus back. There's nothing more reviving than having a defense lawyer trying to tear you apart.'

Perspiration snail tracks were emerging on Tentative's brow. 'If cocaine will do, there's a favour I can call in.'

'Who's the lucky fellow?'

'I shit you not, the only fools in this business with a lower life expectancy than the users are the dealers. One or two kilograms worth? In other words, a name barely worth knowing.'

Furn stood up. 'If I don't get it by tonight, I won't have anything better to do with it than blow it up.'

'You're going to plant it on Pei? Don't they teach ethics anymore at the academy?'

'Yeah, but I didn't take down notes.'

'What's your number? I'll make some calls and get back to you.'

'No, I'll be outside the Authority Exchange. Ten o'clock tonight. If you're not there, I'll figure you'd just be calling long distance and I'll go visit Xie Hyun on my own.'

Tentative laughed. 'In other words, if I stand you up, you're going to get even by committing suicide.Hope I can remember to pay attention to my watch.'

Furn was tempted to play his own brand of darts with the eight rounds in his Heckler and Koch but settled for a cool departure and a high speed pursuit of his thirst to the Black Gates. He had the Guinness stout on tap. The bartender was scruffy and untucked and it seemed the beer he was pouring he had seen too many times before. Furn took it to his customary table in the back corner. He kept it close and let it get warm.

If he had been less preoccupied in his thoughts, there were a number of fellow drinkers he might have paid attention to. At the top of the list were the three young women enjoying themselves at the bar. All frolicking hair and bare shoulders, they were just the proof Furn needed that laughter was not contagious. A second pint of Guinness drew the eyes of the middle woman his way. She was wearing blue tinted glasses, which sat well with her rich black hair and succulent red lips. She smiled radiantly and headed his way. Furn returned her smile, at first because of her exotic beauty, but then because he realised it was Jalice.

'I'm disturbed,' said Jalice, playfully. 'You're here on a Monday when I made a point of telling you I only work on Tuesdays and Thursdays. What should I make of that?'

Furn shrugged. 'I'm expecting someone.'

'Forgive me for being less than convinced, but you don't have the look of someone expecting company.' Suspecting he would not defend himself with the truth, she didn't stick around for the end of his long draft of beer.

Furn went back to what he was doing but didn't have to wait long for some vindication. The solidly built man was wearing a green check wool coat, his identity guarded by the long brim of a plain grey baseball cap. Hell-bent on not being noticed by anyone in the bar, he would not recognise any of them in return. Furn quickly drained off his pint's last gasp in wait for his arrival. The man dropped into the chair on the other side of the table. The joints creaked with the weight. The man slid a small blue mobile phone across the table.

Furn tilted his head to get a look at the face under the cap. The close-set blue eyes set off by a complexion over-stocked with vitamin D was familiar from the Dockland's warehouse crime scene: The A-Z Demolition's Operations Director, Jock McClean.

'Wanna beer?' asked Furn.

'This is the wrong night to drink and drive,' replied McClean tapping the phone. 'Not with this in your hand. There are three bags in your boot. Numbered one to three. The corresponding pre-set numbers in the phone will trigger them. A blast radius of only ten metres, but anyone within that space is definitely going to feel it.'

Furn carefully picked up the phone. 'You're a dangerous man.'

'I'm even better at packing the kid's lunches. But I'll accept the compliment.'

He was out the chair and away. Jalice stepped into his wake.

'So, you were waiting for someone. You've miraculously redeemed yourself.' She motioned to the phone. 'Have you got room for another number?'

*

'We'll take my car,' said Tentative.

'Are you going to tell me the name of your friend now?' replied Furn.

'Ronald Caven. And never call him Ron.'

'Why not? Parents who name their kid Ronald are really just passing the buck onto everyone else. You're sure he's going to hand over twenty kilograms of ganja with a handshake?'

'You've never seen gratitude translated into a large chunk of dope?'

'More often I've seen large chunks of dope translated into dead bodies.'

'Well, only dirty cops see the clean side of the drug trade.'

Furn pulled open the boot of the Honda sedan and removed the three black shoulder bags with numbers scrawled on name tags.

'I'm taking these with me,' he said.

'What's in them?' asked Tentative suspiciously.

'I've packed in a toothbrush for starters.'

'Do cops ever tell the truth?'

The bags were surprisingly light on Furn's shoulder. He slammed closed the boot. 'Let's go.'

Tentative's metallic green BMW had been avoiding dust under a cover in an Authority Exchange alleyway. The cover was removed and the engine started with an almost psychopathic whisper.

Twenty minutes later Tentative was smoothly parking in front of a warehouse somewhere amidst the Essendon Airport back-blocks. Furn smirked to himself. An isolated warehouse was just what he wanted.

'No need to say anything unless something goes down.' Tentative calmly got out of the car. 'You got any bullet proof jackets in those bags of yours?'

Furn shook his head and took with him the first of the three bags. 'You'll just have to stay alive the old fashioned way: not get shot.'

The warehouse front was more modest than those surrounding it but the interior given up by stubborn roller door was as expansive as it was well lit. Furn would have been a lot more relaxed if this Ronald Caven had been using the light to read a newspaper. There was a man standing in the centre of the floor, with hands in pockets, doing casual the way Sicilian hitmen kissed cheeks. He was tall and lanky, his whole suit flapping off his body like a windless sail on its mast. His brown hair was carefully gelled and styled, and his dead eyes had been hollowed out by callousness. The kind of man that if he were a next door neighbour you wouldn't be letting your cat out to play.

'You Ron?' Furn called out with distaste.

'Where's Ronald?' came in Tentative over the top, indirectly answering Furn's question while trying to keep things civil.

'Was it Ronald you wanted to see or your own little pot of gold?' The man chuckled with the pun. 'My name is Monday Stanley. Tomorrow it'll be something else. What's on offer here is a key and a number that will tell you where to put it.'

Stepping into open spaces during a drug transaction was about as safe as dozing off with a street hooker and your favourite swollen wallet but Furn did not hesitate. Perhaps his distaste ran as deep as that. If this man was going to make a move he wanted to ensure it was a wrong one.

Tentative, a step behind, was again belying his nickname. 'Your name might change but it'll just be another way to describe the same stink. Where's Caven?'

Stanley pursed his lips as though he were working in lipstick. Then he relaxed them into a tortured smirk. 'Silent partners don't answer questions. They don't ask them either. They hear that someone is trying to extort fifteen kilograms of product and they make some noise.'

'Noise?' In Furn's experience the only time drug dealers were ambiguous was when they were talking double cross or murder. The hand inside his pocket pressed the number one automatic button on Jock McClean's mobile phone. How much time did he have? Better count down from ten. It worked for the astronauts.

Tentative had stopped in his tracks too, scanning the warehouse's dark extremities. Snipers wearing anything less than fluorescent aerobics tops would be virtually impossible to see.

'Noise,' Stanley reaffirmed. His hand went to his earlobe. That was the signal. Cold blooded killers didn't get nervous ticks.

'Down!' Furn screamed, slinging the shoulder bag at Stanley.

Bullets started coming. Crack, crack, crack. A tool box took one for Furn. He would have climbed through the subsequent hole if only he could.

The explosion out of the bag did for his eardrums what vodka did for his head. Numb and dazed bravery soon followed – relative bravery: there was no way he was sticking around to check up on Tentative; this debacle was his party and perhaps even his brainchild. He ran without direction, the smoke followed him like one of those schoolyard friends you shared your play lunch with. He pressed the second automatic dial number. Another loud bang and the average sniper would assume it was the cavalry. Too bad for the BMW, but it would be even worse if he hesitated long enough for Tentative to reach the driver's seat.

He made it to the door of an office. A name had been scratched off its glass. An instant later it had been shot out altogether. Furn dived behind the large grey metal desk beyond. It was seemingly the same material as that used in the Pope Mobile, for an incoming volley of rounds harmlessly ricocheted away. Furn levelled his piece over the top and discharged a burst of his own, not that he was going to risk the top of his head in pinpointing exactly what there was to aim at.

The BMW's death roar was huge and was accompanied by a chorus of warehouse windows blowing in. The firing stopped with it. A headache had never had such an explosive cure.

Furn rolled over like he had just hit the snooze button on his alarm clock. Could he sleep off that pain in his side? It was warm and sticky to the touch. Just how much ordinance had McClean packed into those bags? Furn probed the wound with a handkerchief; if half his side was missing, he preferred to find out from a distance. The handkerchief was dampening. Fortunately, he was wearing black. He could walk the streets without eliciting cries of horror. Now that his target had reverted back to the Hyun Gang, he needed to wander the well-trodden streets of Narcotics World.

30

Furn's focus had narrowed to the width of the gun barrel he was peering down. No room for concern for Tentative's welfare, or for that matter, the welfare of the motley young Vietnamese Australian the gun was pointed at.

'We don't want no trouble,' the teenager was saying. 'We don't hurt customer. You pay money and go.'

'I don't have money,' said Furn, struggling to keep the gun steady.

'You leave drugs. You come back when you have money.' He wore a gold necklace, a gold chain earring and Ray Ban sunglasses. Obviously some of his customers had been doing this thing the way it was meant to be done.

Furn shook his head. He was not surprised he had been mistaken for a drug addict. The pallid cheeks born from blood loss were not markedly dissimilar. In fact, if the side wound didn't kill him, it could almost be considered fortuitous. No cop had ever looked this much a junkie without having to check into rehab.

The Springvale flat was unexceptional, had quite possibly been extorted from some terrorised member of the Vietnamese community. The TV was laughing with a sitcom. The evenings unconsumed pizza was still in its box on the living room table. There was an unconscious gang member on the cheap navy blue sofa, the blood streaked across his face the result of Furn removing him from the conversation. There had only been two of them. Furn must have caught them on a quiet night. But there would be others. These weren't the kind of boys that would let a good pizza go to waste. They were leaving if for someone.

Furn risked a glance inside the Gucci travel bag he had found in the chill box of the disconnected refrigerator. His initial scepticism that something so easy to find could not be worth all that much evaporated immediately. There were enough satchels of heroin, cocaine and amphetamines to keep the gang's customers spoilt for choice.

'No, I don't think I will be coming back.' Furn pistol-whipped the young man's lights out. It was quicker than applying restraints but with him crashing through the pizza and its coffee table it wasn't particularly quiet.

'You leave!' Here was another voice telling Furn what to do. The only problem was he did not have a gun trained in that direction. It was at the door to the side. Encumbered by his gashed ribs and the crudely applied gauze holding them together, his turn resembled a Great War tank. Fortunately, the Vietnamese man he encountered there was just about of that vintage and unarmed. Bundled up in a dressing gown, his last few strands of hair sticking to his sweaty scalp, Furn had not seen such a look of consternation since the days he had not had enough money to pay the rent.

'Some bad people are coming. My niece must call them when she hears trouble. She has called them already. You will go out the back. My mother is upstairs. I do not want her disturbed by someone getting killed.'

'Yeah, we wouldn't want that.' Furn lowered his gun to the two young me he had battered. 'Are these two roomies?'

The old man shook his head disdainfully. 'Hurry. My niece already called.'

'Better if she called the cops, don't you think?'

'Then more people like you would come here.'

Furn laughed. 'Good point. I'll remember to use my silencer for the sake of your poor mother.'

The elevator wouldn't have been much better than a coffin if shooting started, so he took the stairs. The stairwell was poorly lit and slippery with grime. He had his pistol at the ready and, true to his word, when he concluded the way was clear, he reached into his pocket for his silencer. Just as he had it, however, his phone began to ring and he diverted to that. It was Rish Jones. It might have been something to do with the Sapiens but even now, with a stash of hard drugs under his arm and a kill squad on the way, he still hoped it was a social call.

'Hello,' he said.

'We need to talk.' Rish's voice was immediately all business.

'Now?'

'When I hang up I'm turning off the phone. Then it'll be too late.'

'Too late for what?'

'What do you think about me?'

Furn was making quick progress out the building and was back walking along Clayton Road. The beatings he had handed out to find the Hyun Gang's temporary residents had apparently left the local cops undisturbed. The streets were dark and deserted, the streetlights having nothing much to illuminate apart from parked cars and fire hydrants. His own parked car was at the other end of the Clayton shopping strip. With the time it was taking, however, the Hyun Gang could have called in reinforcements from a downtown Saigon traffic jam. Not that they would not need to go as far as that. Furn glanced over his shoulder just long enough to take in the two men trailing him without provoking them into immediate action. Obviously there was something holding them back. Perhaps it was the myriad of security cameras that would be wired to half the shops in the strip. But any self-respecting gangster would be carrying a baseball cap or balaclava for a moment like this. Maybe there was no reason at all, and that realisation would just as likely come with a bullet in the back.

Furn was considering the merits of an old fashioned showdown right there and then when Rish's voice came again. 'Don't strain yourself thinking about it,' she snapped.

'What do I think of you?' Furn hesitated. He knew the question was nothing less than a pin to a hand grenade and the only way to understand the true nature of the explosion was to pull it. 'I've been thinking about you a lot,' he murmured.

Rish's mood was not tempered. 'That's what a man would say to stop a conquest from slipping away. It's possession not affection.'

'What are you talking about?' Furn glanced back in a fleeting attempt to mark the progress of the two Hyuns. They were getting alarmingly close but he realised that Rish was not going to let herself be put on hold while he had a shootout.

'Catlett and I have been having a frank discussion,' Rish continued. 'He says he is ready to put his philandering days behind him and make a serious commitment. Although I've never believed him in the past, a man does deserve to be believed at least once. Perhaps, today is the day.'

Furn felt a wave of anger. Catlett had been happily ignoring Rish until he realised Furn was interested in her and then he had become the two hundred centre metre blocker he was on the basketball court. 'And I have already failed that test?' he muttered.

'Maybe. We had a plan for dinner tonight. You forgot, didn't you?'

Furn swore under his breath. 'Sorry, I got caught up in things.'

'You're out on a job while Catlett came home after training and cooked me an omolette. Do you see the trouble you're in?'

The feisty, intelligent voice was releasing a torrent of vivid memories: tastes, smells, sensations that the sediment of time had not even begun to cover.

'Yeah, I'm getting an idea,' Furn murmured.

'If I could turn off a feeling like a tap we wouldn't be having this conversation, but it's not that easy. So here's your chance. If you want me you'd better start talking.'

Furn tried again to spot his two pursuers. He was crossing the tracks of the Pakenham Line and if the two men had narrowed their distance, it would put them in the open. It would be the moment to shoot or be shot. He worked his gun to the very lip of his pocket.

'I hate to say this, but now really isn't the best time,' he said.

'Yes, it is,' replied Rish, 'because if you hang up on me now, I'm going to do things to Clancy that are going to make your head spin.'

Furn slung the narcotics bag up onto his shoulder. Although the handles were too narrow for it to be comfortable, at least it provided his gun and phone with a hand each.

'I'm not planning to hang up,' he said, 'I'm not even going to place you on hold, but I am about to be in a gunfight.'

The boom-gates started to drop and the Hyun Gang made their move. A burst of gunfire erupted from the nearby train station pedestrian overpass. Furn would have been a lot more content if they had attempted to knife him: bullets flying around a town centre was collateral damage just waiting to happen. He dropped to his stomach on the tracks. Bullets clanged off the boom-gate and rails. Meanwhile, an oncoming train was alerting to its presence with urgent vibrations shooting up the track. It was the city-bound train and Furn slithered away as the bullets continued to fly. Suddenly the vibrations seemed to leap up and grasp him to the core. He made a desperate, reflexive dive back onto the city-bound track, just evading the large black sports utility tearing for him. The utility's lights were off, but the train lights were blaring upon him, and its wheels were screaming in his ears with the hideous screech of metal upon metal. Furn checked his roll and threw himself back away, eluding certain death by a sliver. He pinned himself to a barbed wire trampoline of a fence, positioning the narcotics as a feeble, makeshift buttress as the train roared by.

The Hyun Gang would be regrouping on the other side, preparing to reclaim them. Only seconds before the train was passed and he would be facing them. There were no ready gaps in the fence and not enough time to create one. He levelled his gun at the goods laden carriages, readying for the moment they were gone. His hand was perfectly steady and he told himself that shakiness had been trained out of it, lived out of it, too. But then he realised the hand that was holding the phone was empty. He quickly glanced down around his feet for any sign of it. He was still looking when the train shot away, and he dropped to his knee, ready for the firestorm to begin. What greeted him, however, was silence and the perplexing sight of the sports utility crashed into a concrete post and riddled with bullets. Blood was spattered on the windshield and a head was lolled forward on the dashboard. While previously Furn had been forcing himself to stay still, now it was setting in like rigamortis. He had a feeling the two gang members on the overpass were also dead, for the exquisite grouping of bullets in the windshield was the mark of a crack shot. Furn could assume the shooter was on his side, but it would make for a very quick death if he were wrong. He remained flat on his stomach as he pondered the predicament. He noticed his phone then, smashed up on the tracks. He crawled over it and snatched it up: the screen was cracked and the line was dead. Furn put it into a pocket and to stop himself thinking about Catlett and his eggs he picked himself up and bounded over the fence. He walked away quickly, not wanting to abandon a crime scene, but knowing at least he wasn't the one who had created it. He doubted this was Johnny Condrey, either. This was a whole different league. Faceless players on unsavoury missions. Furn would just have to accept there were those with vested interests in keeping him alive, and not necessarily for reasons he would approve of - reasons lost within the murky depths of the Red Line Files. If his guardian angel carried a sniper's rifle, he would just have to put it down to life in the Rogue Intercept Police.

He doubled back on a hurried walk to his car and immediately went to the two way radio. The voice at the other end was accompanied by the distinctive hum of helicopter engine.

'Furn?' Rick Lawton said.

'Pick me up at the Police Academy in twenty minutes,' Furn replied.

'No can do. I'm on a job. Someone's blown up a warehouse in Essendon.'

'Forget that. Trust me, the suspects have already fled. Anyway, this has priority.'

There was a pause. 'Landing at the academy in the middle of the night, you've got to have clearance for that.'

'Why do you think I'm in the RIP?' said Furn. 'Nothing gets clearer than that. Ten minutes. I'll be waiting.'

31

The Cherokee twin engine prop AL321 was taxiing along the runway. It would only be the forth departure of the morning from the Cairn's Regional Airport. The three preceding it had been the remote mail service, a geological survey flight and a charter flight. AL321 had been waiting its turn in a quiet corner. It was carrying two occupants: a tall, bulky sixty-something male, whose silver ponytail was an oasis of hair on an otherwise barren scalp; and a squat, middle-aged woman in a white half-sleeved shirt and grey slacks. The woman had moved with a grace and defiance that belied his frame. Not the kind of woman that would be lugging around a bulky duffel bag as luggage – or it was closer to the truth to say that duffel bags were a lot more common a sight in these parts than this kind of woman: a woman with the soft touch and blistering glare better suited to business class in major airports.

The man, a more earthy typed, had given the engines a final inspection before transferring two more duffel bags from his General Motors pick up. There were few people about the airport to witness the takeoff. The local skydiving club, which accounted for the bulk of the airport's activities, would not be doing its first runs a couple of hours yet.

The flawless take off was not about to draw attention either. The empty windsock draping its mast, there could not have been a more accommodating sky.

Furn, decked out in khakis, intently watched through roof prism binoculars the plane's smooth ascent and lazy banking northward. Having spent half the night in the long grass on the airports outskirts, his neck had pretty much locked itself in an upward position already.

Rolling beads of perspiration started to sting his eyes. The razor sharp sun rays, however, had suddenly transformed from menace to reward. The difference between baking alive in an overgrown snake infested field and sun baking on a strip of pristine white sand were obvious enough.

He took a large gulp of water from his canteen, clearing his voice for the call he needed to get out of the way first. The finger usually used for pressing buttons had lost its nail during the previous evening's maelstrom, something he was painfully reminded of now.

He was still grimacing when Azu Nashy answered the call.

'Yes.'

'How's Canberra?'

'Hectic. Word's just come in that Barry Jewel's been found dead in his apartment. It might be the Sapiens tying off loose ends. Perhaps, he should have stayed in prison, after all.'

'Well tying up loose ends sounds like a good idea,' said Furn, 'and that's what I'm doing here. In fact, I think it's time to give Detachment 88 a call. AL321 is on route. Anticipated destination is Papua, but the CIA has given them enough tracking equipment that they can take care of the job themselves. The cargo consists of substantial illicit funds and narcotics. The narcotics will take a screwdriver to find and I'm not telling then where it is. I wouldn't want to make it too easy for them. But assure them it'll be worth the look.'

Nashy sighed. 'Anything else?'

'Actually, yes.' The light aircraft carrying Zulma Pei and Canter Collins was now just a distant spec in the sky. Furn turned away from it with a wry smirk.'I'm following up on a suspect. First name Jalice. Family name unknown. Part time employee at the Black Gate Pub in Melbourne. I'll take whatever you can get on her.'

32

Breeze had a walking cane and a spring in his step. Twenty four hours on a plane had made a world of difference. Compared to the endless weeks confined to a hospital bed, a Lufthansa business class seat was perfectly liberating.

Initially he couldn't leave the wine list alone, the pondering over every selection's background story: the region, the grapes, the hands that patiently conjured them – wondering if that could be the life for them. But then somewhere over the cold, dark oceans between Australia and France he started to think about the bullet he had taken and the face of the woman at the moment he had stopped her short of finishing the job. With such a bitter taste in his mouth wine didn't have a chance.

So, he'd get fit, as fit as he had ever been. And he would get a gun from his father and use it like a grinding block to sharpen himself. Then, if the bitterness resisted this kind of mouthwash, he would give due consideration to the whole RIP sideshow. Riley had saved him a taxi ride to Melbourne Airport and, instead of listening to a cabbie's lament of a city's moral decline, he was treated to a heartfelt diatribe on the Red Line File's worthy pursuits. And he was told not to worry about the bullet hole in his back. It would become a third eye with a range of vision to make him a better cop.

The passport Breeze presented to the immigration official at Charles De Gaul airport was just the same as anyone else's. Any signs of this peculiar world he was in was merely stamped upon his face, and it was only for that brief moment at Immigration Control that he removed his Ray Ban sunglasses.

Fifteen years away from France and nothing to show for it except a tailored suit, a suitcase full of designer shirts and the bullet hole that had earned him readmission. His papa had said he would send someone to meet him but he put little stock in that. The man had remembered one birthday out of fifteen. That was not counting the year he mistook his birthday with his own wedding anniversary. The long list of hotels Soila Waneta had meticulously compiled for him was in his breath pocket. It wasn't a weapon but it still provided some feeling of reassurance.

The Custom's official wanted to see inside Breeze's suitcase and he spent a protracted moment feeling about it. Probably the silk and cotton agreed with his under-paid fingers.

'Merci,' said the customs official dismissively. The job done, all that remained was a sad, unfulfilled strain in the man's eyes.

Breeze closed his briefcase and joined the steady stream of people into the Arrivals area. Saturday afternoon, a good time to arrive in a city.

Although most the people were pushing their luggage along on trolleys he was making a point of carrying his. It was the first step in his fitness regime. Maybe it was hurting but stepping back into Paris there were so many other feelings to contend with. He sought out the arrow directing to the taxi stand and then he gave the gathered crowd a quick look over in case papa had come through with a pick up after all.

There it was: Helio Burres. It was written in bold black. The placard was being held up by a dour looking man decked out in black sunglasses and a black suit – just what a self-respecting gangster was supposed to look like.

'I'm Burres,' said Breeze, stepping up to him.

'Good morning, sir,' the man replied with some urgency, his breath noticeably stale. 'Would you kindly come with me, please. I have an urgent message for you.'

Breeze frowned, puzzled by the man's clearly Australian accent. 'A message from whom?'

'From Detective Inspector Riley, sir. I've been asked to accompany you to the embassy.'

The excitement of what might have prompted Riley to send for him and the disappointment of this man not instead being an emissary of his father seemed to cancel each other out so that a vague numbness was all that remained. 'Very well then,' Breeze murmured. 'Lead the way.'

'Very good, sir. There is a car waiting out front.'

As Breeze followed the man out through the Arrivals gate's throng, he missed another sign that held his name. This one was being held down low by a small boy looking out expectantly at the passengers streaming out of Customs with their bags upon trolleys – it was Breeze's son.

33

Zulma Pei waited patiently for the message service preamble to play itself out before shouting loudly into the microphone of her headset, 'Hello Trish, this is Dr Pei. Unfortunately, due to unforeseen circumstances, today's ten o'clock will have to be cancelled. She looked out over the expanse of turquoise sea that lay between Australia and the Indonesian archipelago, ten thousand feet below the twin engine Cessna light aircraft. 'Indeed, I won't be taking any more appointments until further notice. I will be sending some medication in due course. Make sure you follow the directions precisely. Good day, Trish.' She flicked the switch on the console to end the call and turned agitated to Canter Collins. 'She used to think there was a city of termites under her skin. I'm starting to feel that way myself. But it is more than termites under my skin.'

Collins was preoccupied in the rear of the aircraft's hold, trying to wrest control of his dark brown Labrador, Trumper, who was wildly barking at something among the luggage.

'Are there mice on board?' Pei murmured, wondering what was going on.

'Mice he can ignore,' replied Collins, restraining Trumper by the chest. 'The concern on his face was evident. 'I think I told you Trumper was a stray, but that is not quite the truth.'

'No?'

'He was actually a sniffer dog at Sydney Airport. He came sniffing at me after I had disembarked from a flight out of LA. He lingered at my suitcases on the trolley and I should have been worried more about the chances of a friend having slipped in some contraband as a parting gift, but to be honest I was completely enamoured. The most delightful beast I had ever seen. I simply had to have him.'

Pei smirked wryly, aware that he had not been a close friend of her father's for nothing. 'Police don't just give away their detector dogs.'

Collins shrugged. 'When I want something, I want something.'

Trumper was still yapping excitedly, its eyes fixated on a back corner of the plane.

'It ain't no mouse and it ain't no bone that would work him up like this. You got anything packed away in those bags that might?'

Pei glowered. 'What do you mean?'

Collins dragged Trumper to her. 'Hold him a moment, will you?'

Pei reluctantly took him by the collar. 'Are you ever going to fly this plane?'

'It can stay on auto-pilot for a while longer.'

His hands now free, Collins urgently plunged in amongst the baggage. It didn't take him long to pluck out one of the bags of cocaine Furn had planted in the plane during the night. He held it up pointedly. 'You know anything about this?'

'Is it what I think it is?'

Collins stuck a finger into the bag of white powder and tasted it discerningly. 'Not the best quality but good enough to sell in the suburbs or to put someone behind bars for a stretch – depending on which way you look at it.'

'I look at it as a declaration of war. A war intended to be quick and dirty.'

Collins closed the bag up again. 'I get the feeling there will be cops waiting at the end of the flight to make the bust.'

'Yes, I would think so.' Pei's voice was taut with rage.

'Do you have any idea who is responsible?'

'Yes, I do. Military Intelligence. More specifically an ambitious colonel by the name of Skidmore. And let me make something clear.' She started patting Trumper with long strokes down his neck and stomach. 'He deserves to be punished.'

'Are you sure it's not one of your patients? You'd think Military Intelligence could do better than a bag of smack.'

'Like what?'

'A heat seeking missile.'

'Sounds like you've got the wrong idea about Military Intelligence. A bag of low grade blow is only the beginning of what they're capable of. And Skidmore is the worst of them all. A real ugly smell.'

'So, what is he to you?'

'I worked for him.'

'He needed a psychiatrist?'

'Sure he did. To reset all the soldiers who have served under him. A band of traumatized wrecks.'

Collins considered throwing the bag of cocaine out of the plane but hesitated.

'Military Intelligence?' he murmured. 'What could get them so traumatised?'

'Operation Green Fields.'

'Is it worse than it sounds?'

'The kindly name helped with the therapy. We could tell them they could one day help feed the world. The search for new fertilisers is the official purpose, but it is toxins Skidmore really wants. Something with which to poison a country's water supply or turn a livestock's feed lethal. Or perhaps to take out an army or two with the case of the mumps.'

'He'd no doubt bait a detector dog too,' murmured Collins, ruefully, patting Trumper on his way back to his seat.

'Skidmore has an obsession with poisons and how he can apply them. He is not a people's person. This is how he wants to communicate with the world.'

'I'm surprised you would get involved with such people. Fanatical government types do not pay well. They do not make people rich.'

'It was not his money I wanted, it was his drugs.'

'His drugs?'

'I don't mean the dirty bags of cocaine he is trying to frame me with. I'm talking about the chemical compounds being produced out of Green Fields. After all, how can you know something is a poison without first trying to cure someone with it.'

Collins looked uneasy. 'You did experiments?

'Yes. Skidmore provided the compounds and the subjects to try them on.'

'Human subjects?'

Pei nodded. 'We wanted drugs that could manipulate a person's thought processes, that could make them more pliant. So, it would be a waste of time testing them on monkeys, wouldn't you say?'

'I suppose. But live human experiments?'

'Money cannot buy the kind of facilities or subjects bold science requires. It takes an enthusiastic government.'

'These subjects you talk about, were they the patients you set onto the police?'

'No, those patients were all from my private practice. They can't compare with what Skidmore brought to the table. A limitless supply of foreign desperadoes. Five years of service and he'll let them call Australia home.'

'What service?'

'They train overseas and they fight overseas.'

'His own foreign legion.' Collins looked out at the looming coastline of Java out the cockpit window. 'In Indonesia as well?'

'You can count on it. I administered the treatment to foreign nationals from the world. Skidmore's chemicals and my behavioral encoding. Some went insane right there and then. Others graduated.'

Collins shook his head. 'You shouldn't have become friends with such a man. But more than that, you shouldn't have then become his enemy.'

'I did not realise how unsound he was until I was in too deep. In fact, I suspect he has been testing his herbal extracts on himself. It is the only way to explain what he has done.'

'Our cocaine stowaway?'

'No, something else. He has lost his chief scientist, one Gustav Dokomad, to a laboratory mishap. A nasty incident to be sure. But Skidmore is not about to write off his best scientist just yet, so he has had two more hands made available. The donor is the head scientist's less than willing brother. A patient of mine. Dr Dokomad referred him to me, hoping I could cure him of his criminal inclinations. Wragg Dokomad is his name and he was so easily manipulated it was just too good to pass up on. So, I turned him into a Sapien.'

Collins face twisted in revulsion. 'Skidmore had one pair of Dokomad hands grafted onto another?'

'That is why it has come the time to run. Skidmore lured me in with promises of supreme control, but there was always the danger of me losing it instead. I apolgise for dragging you into this situation.'

'Don't worry, your father did the same thing more times than I can remember. He would tell me that if there was something you wanted there would always be an enemy to deal with, and if you actually got it, there would be ten more. He liked to kill his enemies before breakfast. He felt it took the weight out of the rest of the day. So, what do you have in mind for this enemy of yours?'

Pei's eyes narrowed in a hard stare out across the skyline. 'It is getting to him that is the complicated part. Of course, I have considered it in quieter moments. But I should first ask how old are you?'

'Not too old you need to ask,' Collins snapped. 'Not yet.'

'That's reassuring because I don't have any more of my Sapiens left. And only enough mind altering compounds for one more patient.'

'Your pretenses have been well and truly blown. So, no need to keep referring to them as patients.'

Pei ignored the remark. 'Do we have enough fuel to reach Borneo?'

'Just.'

'Good, because that's our only chance of reaching Skidmore.'

'I was always too afraid to ask your father his plans, but you I'm capable of asking.'

'Skidmore's number one scientist is on an operating table about to get new hands. His number two scientist is in Borneo searching for rare species of jungle ivy that he can turn into poisons. He is a botanist. Dr Franz Flant.'

'And what do we need him for?'

'Skidmore's strength is also his weakness.'

'It usually is. In this case?'

'His secrecy. From what I could garner from my patients I treated, he rarely leaves the Green Fields research facility. It is somewhere on the fringe of the desert, and Skidmore has ensured that as few people as possible know where it is and what is done there – which means it is sparsely guarded.'

Collins smirked. 'So, you will pursue him to the very heart of his empire. If I may say so, you're every bit as brazen as your father. I take it this Dr Franz Flant can tell us where the Green Fields is located? Borneo, however, is a very big island, and there are a lot of trees for a botanist to hide behind.'

'I know the devil is always in the detail.'

'On this occasion, however, we've been cut a break. Your father and I have done some quality smuggling out of Borneo over the years and we have a few contacts that might prove useful. Government, of course. There's no point trying to smuggle without them.'

'I see. There's another devil in the detail.' Pei hesitated with the thought. 'I didn't exactly have time to pick up my final pay check. Not all of it at any rate.'

She was met with a laugh. 'There must be something in those bags of yours apart from socks and cocaine. But never mind, if it's money you're worried about, just let it go. Your father all but paid for this plane. And he always had the best places to fly to. I owe him, and helping his daughter is the closest I can come to personally paying him back. Anyway, this bag of cocaine on board will help cover some costs.'

'There will be more,' replied Pei confidently. 'One bag of cocaine would not be enough to put me away for as many years as they would like. Trumper will sniff the rest out when we land.'

Collins banked the plane sharply eastward. 'So let's go pay your botanist friend a visit. If he's interested in rare things, there is nothing rarer than an enemy of the Pei's – living and breathing at any rate.'

Pei reached across and kissed him on the cheek. 'Lead the way.'

*

Furn ran balanced and poised with his fast emptying Glott. He so far had not missed. He was sure of it. The Special Operations Group live round shooting range just outside of Melbourne was his favourite perk in the Rogue Intercept Police, as he had the highest security level clearance, which meant he had twenty four hour security clearance and could go through the course unsupervised and with the weapons unregistered. It was simply taken on faith that all was legal and above board. Guest too could be admitted unregistered, though he had never put that to the test, having always come alone except for a couple of times when he had practised interior entries with Breeze.

Today he was keeping to Dash Alley, which was easily his favourite course at the facility, and useful, as its myriad of state of the art senses could report on the speed of his reflexes, eye movement and target identification and rate his "survivability" against all other comers to the test. He had spent the past year in the top ten percent, which he supposed was survivable enough – he would let fate take care of the rest.

He reached the end of the course and while regaining his breath made his weapon safe. It had handled well, but for the life of him, he could not recall how he had come to be in possession of it. It had been lying around the bottom of a cupboard for at least a year and definitely wasn't departmental issue. Furn tucked the magazine into his breast pocket and walked back to Course Control at the beginning of Dash Alley. Sergeant Howard, the Duty Officer, was at his post behind the counter, busily preparing his performance report.

'Not bad,' said Howard. 'Who's the girl tonight?'

Furn smirked. 'What are you talking about?'

'I've done my own unofficial monitoring of your performances over the years and have noticed that your best results are always in the early evenings when you come with decent threads and aftershave. So that's it, isn't it? You come here to get your eye in for the big date to come. Tell me I'm wrong.' He leaned forward on the counter, accentuating his rounded shoulders and scratched his neck like it were an addicts withdrawal symptom. Furn had heard that this man had been one of the best shots in the whole army until his nervous tics had finally got in the way of his aim.

Furn took a bag of personal effects from the counter and checked his phone. There was a message from Nashy: "She's married." Furn dumped the phone into the nearest pocket and glanced up at Howard. 'What time are you done here? We'll go have a beer.'

Howard frowned and thrust the printout of his performance at him. 'Get the hell out of here. You're going to celebrate these numbers properly.'

'And what does that mean?'

'It means not with me.'

Furn did not stick around to argue: he walked out into car park with his best set of numbers in his pockets and his guard completely down. It was dark and he did not see the two men approach from behind.

'Furn, you have an appointment.'

The accent was Middle Eastern, perhaps Iranian. The man was big and strong and moved with a confident swagger that was a window to a violent disposition. Furn stood his ground and waited for the two men to get close. He thought it ironic that leaving the shooting range was the only time his gun was unloaded. He had come here to sharpen his skills and yet had come out of it at his most defenseless. Perhaps, he could flash his impressive score sheet at them.

The two men stopped and spread themselves out and Furn knew they had more than paperclips to reach for. He still couldn't help not liking them.

'Appointment with who?' he spat in an irritated tone.

The two men grinned the sort of smiles that seemed to say "we have killed plenty of times before and would find it no inconvenience doing it again right now.'

'In your car, you will find out,' said one of man. 'But Colonel Skidmore wanted us to introduce ourselves as well, just so you will who you are dealing with.'

'Well, introduce away. Who the hell are you?'

After some more snickering and staring, the two turned and walked away, the darkness of the car park only too happy to swallow them. Hope did not linger beyond that, concerned with what might have been in store for him at his car: acquaintances of men such as these were unlikely to be anything more delicate than a cobra or a stick of dynamite. What had happened to the Hyun gang at the train level crossing was starting to make a bit more sense. Riley had obviously put the RIP into bed with some particularly ruthless people – he just hoped he knew what he was doing.

Furn had parked in a corner illuminated by a street lamp, enabling him to see that the front passenger door was open and a pair of legs was protruding out from the car onto the bitumen. His primeval lobe registered immediately that the legs were female and attractive. The rest of the woman was concealed by the darkness within, but her voice came proximate and clear.

'My apologies,' she said. 'I was going to wait outside the car, but the seats looked so inviting I decided to pry open a door.' She slid out to the edge of the seat to get a better look at him. Her eyes were steady and sure. Her hair was black with blonde tips and was shoulder length. She was wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans. She was clearly very fit. And in her voice there had been a suggestion of a sense of humour - not much like her companions at all.

'You work with those two?' Furn murmured.

'What can I tell you? I didn't stick around long enough at school.'

'What's your name?'

'DC.'

'As in the city?'

'I'm not in the mood.' She swung back into the car. 'The engine under the hood may not be much compared to your partner's American muscle, but it will do.'

'Do for what?'

'To take me home. It's been a long day.'

Furn stood his ground. 'Where's home?'

'It's already plugged into your GPS. Whilst you're driving, you can get to know your new boss.'

'My new boss?' Furn could not help but smirk. 'So tell me, am I going to like my new boss?'

DC took the question seriously. 'He pushes people around. The way he is pushing you around right now, he does to everyone, including some of the finest scientific minds in the country, and in that way he is on track to change the world.'

Furn's look hardened. 'I've already been working for him, haven't I?'

'What makes you say that?'

Furn marched around to the driver's seat and got into the car. 'You better put on your seatbelt.' He drove fast, tearing along the Calder Highway back towards Melbourne. He wasn't going to say another word. DC enjoyed the way he effortlessly worked through the traffic, turning it inside out, findingthegaps where there were none to be had; she, however, eventually grew tired of his silence and reacted by dialing a number on the car phone and putting it onto speaker.

The dial tone was replaced by a hard, toneless voice. 'What is it?'

'Furn is here, sir,' DC replied.

'Good. And what is your impression so far?'

'He seems to know who you are.'

There was a pause before the voice came again. 'Good evening, Sergeant Maroon. I am Colonel Skidmore of Military Intelligence. I believe we have almost met on previous occasions. I would be interested to hear what you think about me.'

Furn frowned. 'You are best known in the RIP for your Mosquito tagging ring. It has been quite helpful in our routine tracking of rogue elements.'

'I'm glad you like it. What else?'

'It seems you have been having some trouble managing your scientists recently, and the RIP have been giving you a hand with that.'

There was another long silence. 'That incident is not yet over. So, you had better know some more about me.'

Furn eased his foot slightly off the accelerator. 'Alright, I'm no longer breaking the speed limit. You've got my attention.'

'I am currently engaged in a project named Green Fields, which entails developing new fertilisers that we envisage will be the most powerful the world has ever seen. Food production could be improved to the point that millions of lives are saved all over the world every year and for generations to come. Thus, the stakes could scarcely be higher. But it is dangerous work. You see, our focus is on nature's most lethal elements. We believe that in the DNA of death there is an antidote to be found: a genesis of life. And from this we will cultivate super bacteria. One that will infest the most barren of soils and make it rich and fertile. The technology we must discover, however, could be used as a platform in biological warfare. A contagion could be made unstoppable. That is why even the Americans will not embark on this area of research. We have gone ahead with the proviso that security is of paramount importance. We are operating out of a remote top secret facility and we are careful with the staff we hire. Only the most committed make it past our screening. And once they are with us...well, the bonds of family are inseparable aren't they?

'Sure,' said Furn, starting to get worried.

'You are becoming family too. You did a great job tracking down our PONI. An ugly business to be sure. We have to go through such moments for the greater good. You have shown the capacity where others may not be so strong footed.'

'Others?'

'Zulma Pei was leading the screening and monitoring our team. A behavioral expert. She was innovative and unorthodox and the results were of a high order. A team on the verge of greatness. Unfortunately, however, a person of a certain nature can be consumed by themselves. That is what has happened to Zulma. She has turned rogue.'

Furn was unsettled by the talk of Pei. He had neglected to follow up on her flight to Java - hadn't been near a TV or a radio to tune into the news and Riley hadn't been in touch to fill in the blanks.

'Where is she now? he murmured sheepishly

'Whereabouts unknown. She was heading to Java aboard a light plane and according to a tip-off, there was a considerable cargo of illicit drugs on board. No such flight path was made, however.'

'Really?'

'There was an unregistered flight detected on radio by both the Indonesian and Australian Air forces around the time the tip-off predicted, but the plane veered off towards Borneo where it somewhat skillfully dropped below radar. So, if we want to find out what Pei's been up to, we'll have to go ask her ourselves.'

'Is that what you have in mind for me?'

'Not exactly. I have a team ready to go to Borneo. They are familiar with the local conditions and are a good chance of taking her there on foreign soil, which would suit me just fine. There is, however, always the chance she will make it back to Australia. I would like to hold you and Cantrell back for that possibility.'

'Who?'

'Me,' snapped DC.

'I want you two working together in the meantime,' continued Skidmore. 'It will give you a chance to familiarise. Your Rogue Intercept Unit will serve that purpose well enough. She may find your tagging duties interesting. But that doesn't mean you have my permission to teach Cantrell any of your bad habits or corrupt ways endemic to every police force I have come across. She is a security officer with a lot of potential and I would not like to see her future in any way impaired.'

Furn looked across to DC to see that she was scarcely paying attention, idly gazing out the window while smoking a marijuana joint. He smirked and replied pointedly, 'Futures have a way of doing that all by themselves.'

DC blew smoke at him from the corner of her mouth.

'Your own career could be a blistering example of that,' snapped Skidmore. 'It would be a shame because I'm happy with your work so far. I will contact your superiors to confirm the arrangement. Any further contact will come through my people on the ground. Which means, if they speak, it's my voice I want you hearing. Especially when it's Sergeant Cantrell.'

Furn frowned. 'That won't be easy. She's not what I imagine you look like.'

The call was promptly ended.

DC smirked. 'You want to know what he looks like, well, I'm not too sure you'd want to know what he's looking like right now. It serves him right talking to people he can't court martial.'

'Can he court martial you?

DC blew out some smoke. 'I doubt it. I'm the only member of his team Dr Zelma Pei hasn't been mind-screwing with. That's why he has assigned me to this. Your involvement is harder to figure out. I suppose, if something goes wrong, he will be able to pin it on you with ease. Your name has been dragged through the mud once or twice by the media, so the tracks are clearly laid.'

Furn shrugged. 'The motivation doesn't have to be pure for someone as rogue as Zulma Pei. And besides, that is what attracts cases to the RIP in the first place.'

'What does?'

'The chance of off-loading blame.'

DC inspected at her joint dourly. 'This is what gave Skidmore the leverage to put me in with you.' She took in a long draft, held it a moment and exhaled luxuriously. 'And this is also the reason I didn't care one way or the other.' She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the door window.

Furn pulled out the Glott, which was sticking his thigh and said with a glint of cruelty. 'This is my reason.'

'And now we're partners.'

34

'I peeked through the bathroom window,' said the young man. 'I couldn't help it. I just had to see.' The voice was slow and steady, coming from somewhere far behind the closed eyelids, a place that only someone with the skills of Dr Zulma Pei could reach.

She turned with a satisfied smirk to Collins, who was a fascinated onlooker in the doorway. 'Calibration is complete. That was just a taste.' She carefully lifted a glass beaker from the table and shook up the cloudy liquid within. 'This is the full dose right here. Do we have our target?'

Collins nodded.

Pei held up a hand for him to wait and went back to her subject. 'Tony,' she said in a low, calm voice, 'your secret is now free and you'll awake feeling fresh. But first you must walk into the jungle and sleep. You must walk far so that you can't see anyone. And no one can see you. Do you understand?'

The young man nodded from within his trance.

'Good,' said Pei. 'One night in the jungle and you will awaken feeling as fresh as can be. But you will not remember how you came to be there. Nod again to show me you understand perfectly.

The young man named Tony complied.

'Good,' said Pei. 'Now go find a comfortable spot in this jungle and don't talk to anyone on the way.'

Tony got up from his loose-jointed metal office chair and strode for the door with an eerily blank stare.

'Have a nice trip,' Collins murmured, stepping out of his way.

Tony did not acknowledge him in any shape or form and with a steady stride he was out the door and heading down the three flights of stairs that would take him into the hotel foyer and away.

Collins nodded his approval to Pei. 'Impressive. I wonder though if you have considered the tigers and pythons that lurk in the jungle at night.'

Pei shrugged flippantly. What do you want me to do about that, hypnotise them into not eating him?'

'I suppose not.'Collins went to the chair vacated by Tony and sat down.

Pei gazed impatiently across the table at him. 'I assume I don't have to take control of your mind to get the answers I want.'

'Fortunately, no.'

'Where is the good Dr Franz Flant?

'He is leading a small expedition in the remote upper reaches of the Gunung Mulu National Park. My source tells me it is an area well known for its variety of pitcher plants and orchards.'

'Sounds about right. How do we get at him?'

'The area he is in can only be accessed by river, which compels predictability upon his travel movements. If we miss him there, however, we can be sure the city of Mirio will be his destination. It is only a hundred kilometres from the national park and has the closest airport in the area.'

'Did your source nominate a day to expect them?'

'No, Flant is running security tight.No communications out in the field, no traceable devices in the kit and no locals on crew, not even a local guide.'

'The Australian Foreign Legion,' said Pei ruefully. 'They may prove a handful.'

'Well, I've got the hand,' replied Collins, 'but it will cost. The kind gift of a brick of cocaine has only paid for an aircraft hangar. To put the boys out on a river will take something more substantial. You say you have a cash flow problem?'

Pei pulled a face. 'I have the proceeds of crime at drop-off points all around Melbourne – only trouble is the man I had arranged to collect it all up has disappeared. I'm worried about him.'

'You sure he hasn't simply made the pickups and then taken a flight of his own?'

'I doubt it. I'm a good judge of character.'

'Manipulator of character, you mean?'

'On this occasion, no manipulation was required. A true zealot.'

'Can you be so sure? Double crosses are a fact of life.'

'I'm certain he hasn't double crossed me. But I'm less certain what has become of him. You see, my man was the brother of the wounded scientist. I fear Military Intelligence may have taken him.'

'Isn't there anything of value in those bags of yours?'

'Not of a value to fund a private army. But I'll arrange something.'

'What, you'll talk to your bank manager?'

'Already have. The poor man came to my practice suffering nightmares. After one month of intensive treatment, he is doing well.' She smirked coldly. 'So, how much are we going to need?'

'I don't know. I'll have to ask. For eyes on the ground, ten or twenty grand should cover it. If you want those eyes to get busy against the Australian Foreign Legion, it will cost a whole lot more.'

'A fifty thousand dollar bounty on Flant. Will that get their attention?'

'It just may. Life is cheap in the jungle. The real question is can you come up with the fifty? It's particularly unhealthy in this part of the world to make a promise you can't keep.'

'Don't worry about that. My bank manager is very reliable, very thorough, and my hypnotherapy went particularly deep.' Pei left her chair and walked to the window with its impressive view of a distant heavily jungled mountain range – she always paid for the view, for there was nothing else about a hotel that could interest her. She considered the situation she found herself in a moment and turned back to Collins with a steely resolve. 'Make the offer,' she said. '

*

The man stepped out of the Beauty Parlour looking fresh and particularly well groomed - a facial, manicure and detox sauna session had seen to that. The sun was glistening off his smooth, olive tanned cheeks but was lost to the ice cold black sunglasses swallowing the upper half of his face; his black suit and white silk shirt hung loose and breathed their expense like a fertile animal did its pheromones.

Furn was watching him from across the road. He already knew which car was his and had to admit even in the flash suburb of Brighton, the grey Porsche was a standout Mostly, however, Furn only knew the fake things about the man. He knew his fake name was Ralph Lang. and his fake permanent address was just down the road – the place was real enough though the man was almost never there. And he knew his fake occupation was in sales – not that the man made any claim to actually be working. Small lies, each and every one of them, but what made the sum of these so dangerous was the professional quality of the fakeness: nothing illegal enough that a good lawyer couldn't spring him from custody with his fakeness still intact. As the man neared, Furn could see how the gold and diamonds on his watch glistened and it occurred to him that in his social life there were plenty of people with fake Rolex watches whereas in his working day the watches were real and the people fake. Not that the difference was as large as it sounded.

Furn slipped the plastic safety cap off the ring that Riley had dubbed the Mosquito and lunged at the man, slapping him hard on the base of the neck. The Mosquito had a small needle, which was designed to remove a sample of blood whilst at the same time inject a quick acting poison – a paralyzing agent. It was an invention of Military Intelligence and was how Riley and Colonel Skidmore had first come to be acquaintances. It had worked so well on the first few occasions that Furn had been on the verge of requesting from Riley an introduction, so that he could express his appreciation in person, but then there was an incident with a body builder already so souped-up on steroids that one more chemical in his system virtually went unnoticed - a particularly bruising incident, and Furn's enthusiasm for all things Skidmore was dramatically subdued. Especially when his request for a stronger dose was turned down: apparently not being Military Intelligence meant the light, sugar free version was all that could be afforded. And that was why even taking on someone as well manicured as Ralph Lang was not without risk. The Rogue Intercept Police had a policy of always working in pairs in case the target was in any condition to demonstrate a resistance for the Mosquito, and the only reason Furn was alone now was the early hour of the beautician's appointment: remembering how tired DC had been when he had dropped her off at her hotel the night before, he had not had the heart to try wrestling her early out of bed today. He would take care of Lang, put the blood sample in for analysis and hope DC was awake by then.

As he ran down the Brighton street, it struck him how far this was from what he had once considered police work: running from a criminal, after all, was unlikely to make any city the safer, but then, he did not even know that this man was a criminal; in fact, his own actions were the only crime he was sure had taken place. It was unfortunate he did not have a spotter letting him know his back was clear, that he could walk instead of run – it would have been it the more palatable.

Nearing his car, he finally remembered to slip the plastic cover back on the Mosquito. He glanced at his watch and was surprised how late it was – almost eleven o'clock: Lang must have spent longer with the beautician than he had first thought. He was hungry. He would just have to dig himself into DC's minibar. He put the Mosquito into the glove box and drove the four blocks to DC's hotel, the Brighton Savoy on Bay Street. It was an elegant grey block building with tinted glass. The car park that was clogged up with limousines on wedding days was currently all but empty. Furn was still looking over his shoulder as he stepped out of his car; there was something about that Ralph Lang that made him uneasy: a man that needed two hours of cleansing at the beautician's must have been coming from a great reservoir of muck. And the beautician had not been able to touch what was going on in those eyes: the closer Furn had got, the darker they had become and the sudden glance Lang had flashed as the Mosquito struck was pure snake. Furn strode into the hotel reception, thinking the sooner he was buried in DC's minibar the better.

Then it occurred to him that DC was unlikely to be the name on the register. Furn had to concentrate to recall the other.

'Cantrell?' the receptionist clarified with professional impassiveness – the voice had a South American accent. 'No one by that name, sir.'

Furn nodded and described her. He flashed his badge at the end of it, which was something he always did when he felt ridiculous.

The receptionist somehow managed to become even more impassive. 'You might be referring to Ms Alexander, sir. Following her instructions I have been placing a wakeup call to her room every fifteen minutes for the past hour. She has been answering but falling right back to sleep.'

'A chronic sleeper.'

'It seems so, sir. But in her defense, we have some of the most comfortable beds in Melbourne.'

'Well, if you give me a room number, I'll be happy to kick her out of it.'

Some of the receptionist's facial muscles actually moved. 'I'm sorry, sir. She had a badge too. She showed hers just in case there was a moment such as this. She said it wouldn't be the first time someone kicked down her door fearing she was a junkie passed out and overdosing.' The receptionist picked up the phone, aware that he had better try something. 'I'll give her room another call.'

As he dialed, he looked past Furn to the door and he lowered the mouthpiece and called out, 'Can I help you, sir?'

A feeling of danger flooded through Furn and he reflexively spun and whipped out his Glott. If he had excelled at the shooting gallery with cardboard cut-outs flashing at him, this was much easier: a living, breathing Ralph Lang was standing in the doorway, staring his way, hand lost inside his jacket. Furn shot him in the shoulder even before he had stopped spinning and Lang was sent spinning too.

'Oh, my,' gasped the receptionist.

'Call an ambulance,' said Furn.

Gun aimed, he edged towards Lang, who was curled up whimpering loudly.

'You have the right to remain silent,' Furn snapped.

'What's going on?' shouted DC, rushing into the foyer with her gun at the ready.

Furn smirked her way. 'A wake up call.'

*

Riley was late to the crime scene. There was only blood stains and perimetre tape to be seen. He did not stop to dwell, for there was still a media pack waiting to expand upon an already colourful headline. A cop shooting in an upmarket hotel, a photogenic locale that could just as easily feature in a travel story. And with sunset looming, there were still some nice shots to be had. After all, it was not only wedding photographers who could utilise a little artificial paradise. And in this case a cop would make the perfect subject for the backdrop, especially one from the Rogue Intercept Police.

Riley, however, made sure all they would get from him was a bowed head and a turned back. Having been here before helped him navigate his way round - it had been for a conference, not a wedding, and he was struggling to recall what the topic had been about. The one thing he did remember clearly was how to get to the roof.

Furn was there, staring out over the palm trees at Port Philip Bay. It was a nice view, but Furn didn't seem to be seeing it. He turned sharply to Riley. 'They didn't find a gun on him but I'm sure a weapon is there somewhere. A pen pistol or something of that ilk.'

Riley held up his hand. 'You're off the hook. Military Intelligence had claimed him. The Official Secrets Act. They have taken him away to one of their secured medical facilities. They are going to take you to.' He looked around the flat roof. 'Where is your new partner, Code Name DC?'

'She's gone to pack. Check out time is looming.'

'Today she'll be checking out from the roof: Military Intelligence is sending a helicopter.'

'A helicopter bound for where?'

'That's a secret.' Riley looked away. 'All I can do is see you off.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Military Intelligence wants to claim you and there's nothing I can do about it. You've become too hot for us to keep.'

Riley smirked wryly. 'You're the kind of cop that does best with an Official Secret's Act.'

'Look who's talking.'

'Well, I wasn't always like this. Anyway, I've been reassigned. The Rogue Intercept Police have been taken over by the military. You with it.'

Furn felt his throat tightening with anger. 'That's crazy. You built it up from nothing. It's your baby.'

'And not it's grown up and leaving home. Your new friend, Colonel Skidmore, has a lot of pull. Not someone to trifle with. He wanted the Rogue Intercept and he has it. Just like that. No one in HQ had the stomach to fight for it.'

'Or me?'

'Why would they?'

'What of the Red Line Files?'

'Skidmore's people raided my office this morning. Before I knew what was happening, it was all being taken away. Years of work.'

A helicopter emerged from the distance. Riley looked that way and sighed. 'I'd say that's your ride.'

'Don't worry, this isn't over,' assured Furn. 'I'll get the Red Line Files back for you.'

'Didn't you hear what I said? I've been reassigned. Traffic duty. There's nothing I can do about the files anymore. But someone should. Your friend, Ralph Lang is just the tip of what's out there. Rogues of all kind. Unemployed hitmen, retired bank robbers, disillusioned terrorists, bankrupted traders. Putting order to it would be a lifetime's work, a very short lifetime if you're not on your toes.'

The military helicopter hovered overhead, drowning Riley out. He did not try to fight it. He offered out his hand but before Furn could clasp onto it a rope ladder dropped between them. Riley stepped back then and Furn thought that amidst the squinting from the downdraft there was a glint of sadness. Furn wasn't even going to try to reciprocate it. With the media and internal investigations offices all milling around the hotel foyer, a helicopter rescue seemed too good to be true. Furn pounced onto the rope ladder and energetically began to climb. He noticed as he went DC heading towards the helicopter with a wheelie suitcase in tow. She was wearing a clunky pair of headphones and her head was down at her feet; for some reason, however, Furn stopped to stare at her some more and she instinctively responded by firing a sudden glance: it was gone as quickly as it came, but it packed enough latent energy that Furn felt it reverberate through him even with the rotor blades roaring overhead. He continued his ascent.

*

DC was not going to join Furn in conversation, so he joined her in gazing out the window. The helicopter flew low and fast, soon leaving the city behind for the rolling green hills of northern Victoria. The pilot was hugging the terrain so tightly that Furn was beginning to wonder if the man was in fact afraid of heights. Still, it was a nice change from the police helicopters, which always flew high in order to maximise the range of their surveillance equipment - an irony of sorts, for it meant the people on board could see virtually nothing, or at least not like this, where Furn could see the whites of a panicky crow's eyes.

Furn and DC did not have the cabin to themselves. There were two solidly built members of the Australian Foreign Legion, leaning on their assault rifles. They had been sitting that way from the start, not even shifting when Furn and DC had first climbed into the helicopter: it was as though they were bolted down just as firmly as the seats. Perhaps, it was some sort of camouflage technique and it certainly words, for Furn soon forgot they were there.

He was thinking of Riley and Breeze and the Rogue Intercept Police and sensed that what had torn them apart was now waiting at the end of this helicopter flight. Colonel Skidmore had assumed command and Furn knew well the dispenses of orders could be the most dangerous of enemies. The perfect murder, after all, was one in which the killers were permitted to honour the death as noble sacrifice - and Skidmorewould have good call to see Furn out of the way, knowing what ramifications the Dokomad case would have if it ever became public knowledge. Furn could only shake his head and console himself with the thought that a commander who wanted him dead wouldn't be all that different from Riley - and he was starting to miss him already. All the same, he would have to keep his eyes on the two machine gunners on board and all their comrades on the ground, for a noble death seemed something they specialised in - noble or otherwise. Indeed, DC was the only one of Skidmore's troops Furn considered even halfway trustworthy - she, however, had the unfortunate habit of always looking down.

By the time the helicopter finally landed, Furn had lost track of time, but it was nothing compared to the destination itself: a line of ancient train carriages perched in a dry, dusty grassland that stretched as far as the eye could see. It may have been curious that there were no tracks or roads to indicate how the train carriages had come to be there, but it was nothing like the curiosity Furn felt for the helicopter landing in a place like this in the first place: even the nearest signpost that said the next town was hundreds of kilometres away was probably hundreds of kilometres away. Furn had known the odd police officer who valued remoteness as much as a hard core fugitive and it wouldn't have surprised him in the slightest if Colonel Skidmore turned out to be of such a constitution.

Furn noticed that DC was actually removing her headphones and he had a sudden urge to make her wish that she hadn't.

'The Brighton Savoy might have five stars - although I daresay it may have just lost one, owing to the bullet holes and blood stains in the foyer - but I wonder how many stars this place has been accredited with.'

'At night, all the stars you'd care to see come out,' she muttered. 'All you need to do is look up. You'll have plenty of time to do that, I'm afraid to say.'

She pulled on the handle of her wheelie bag and she slid open the door. The dust was there to greet her. She stepped down into it, covering her eyes and mouth. Furn was not far behind. And amidst the swirling dust there was a man coming towards them. He was tall and wiry and the space in his uniform was flapping about as the rotor blades began to slow. He latched onto DC's suitcase and pulled it further away, as though carrying a child from a burning building. Then he stepped to Furn with a salute that turned into a dive bombing handshake.

'I'm Colonel Skidmore. We finally meet. You must be -'

'Furn.'

'Do you have a rank?'

'No, but I'll rank this place: it's a shit hole.'

Skidmore put his hands on his gun belt and frowned. He backed away from the helicopter, gesturing for Furn to follow.

'The Rogue Intercept Police, I suppose, have a different take on discipline. I would make it a military operation.' In the clear air his face was pasty and pot marked, a bushy mustache seemingly an attempt to take the edge off it. His eyes were dour brown, and his teeth were only a few shades lighter – from the odour of his breath, Furn suspected he was a man who enjoyed a stiff pipe. Furn followed him further, curious of a leader of soldiers who was so repulsive.

'Apologies may be in order. That is what civilians do amongst each other, is it not? Apologise?'

'Apologise for what?'

Skidmore pointed to the railway carriage. 'Your new residence. Temporary as it may be. It's a staging post. Green Fields is a further hundred kilometres inland. The most secretive research facility in Australia. If you are to visit, it will be blind folded.'

'And what will I see when I get there?'

'Fertiliser technology. Biochemical R & D. Or should I say nature's own R & D at its finest.'

'Interesting. And how might I secure an invitation?'

'Zulma Pei. She's right in your line of work. Rogue ugly. She has been heavily involved in the Green Fields project and I suspect she is not out to destroy it. She is currently on the run somewhere in Indonesia and that is where I would like to take her out. But she is not to be underestimated, not with her band of Sapiens to do her bidding. So, you will be my last line of defense, you and Sergeant Cantrell.' He looked at DC, who was standing with arms folded, pressing out her tattooed biceps. 'You will be called in if needed. In the meantime, you will find the carriages well stocked for training.'

Furn glanced around at the flat, arid wasteland surrounding them and murmured, 'But not much chance of an obstacle course.'

Skidmore took a stride back towards the helicopter, eyeing him coldly. 'There is one obstacle you had better be worried about. Her name is Cantrell and she will be conducting your basic training here. You are in the army now, so get used to it.'

Furn frowned, but managed to hold his tongue.

'Whether or not that involves digging latrines remains to be seen,' added Skidmore and completed his march to the helicopter where the two machine gun carrying men inside were leaning out to offer a hand. The rotor blades picked up speed again and the moment Skidmore was inside, the helicopter was returning to the air. As Furn shielded himself from the wind and dust, he found that DC was now close enough that he was shielding her too, and although he no longer minded if she kept her head down with nothing to say, he had the nasty feeling he would not be so lucky. And then he felt her lips against his ear. 'There are clippers in the end carriage,' she said. 'Use them to shave your head. That's all I remember about basic training. After all, when it comes to Zulmei Pei and her Sapiens, how many pushups you'd need to stay alive is hard to say.'

Furn watched for the helicopter to leave, though he was starting to like her.

'Didn't he pull you out of the cops too?'

DC hesitated. 'I was in Military Police. And I wasn't some star performer like you. Skidmore picked me up just as I was about to be discharged.'

'Discharged for what?'

DC shrugged. 'Identity theft. The military finally realised they don't actually know who I am.'

Furn raised his eyebrows. 'Who are you then?'

'If you really want to know, maybe you'll find out one day. That's your job, after all, isn't it?'

Furn pointed to the rail carriages. 'Are there locks on the doors?'

DC chuckled. 'I'm the last of your problems. The one thing I've learned in the Military Police is that any rank from major onwards is always a case of bad news. They have the smarts at strategy, planning and, most importantly, manipulating people. And Skidmore is the smartest of the lot. Before I was assigned to his unit, I was investigating him. There are people in his life that have simply disappeared: girlfriends, military rivals and even neighbours. Frustratingly little evidence to pin him with anything.'

'Perhaps he has sent them to a place just like this.' Furn flapped his hands despairingly. 'For all intents and purposes, we have disappeared too.'

'He has us here and he has us under his command. We follow his orders we live, we follow his orders, we die.' DC pointed in the direction of the fast fading helicopter. 'I get the nasty feeling the decision has already been made, somewhere out there in the wastelands.'

'Have you been to this Green Fields?'

'No. You're right now as close as I have ever been. The staging camp. And if you ask me, that close enough. The New Poison's capital of the free world is the way Skidmore puts it in his Australian Foreign Legion graduation speeches.'

'Like those two nice men on the chopper? I didn't want to risk a bullet by asking them their names.'

'You wouldn't get their real names anyway. They are asylum seekers who tore their passports up into the sea before arriving, or had Skidmore do it for them. They swear allegiance to Skidmore with the promise of a pick of a new passport after two years of service. Who they really are and what happens to them may never be known.'

'Torn up and thrown into a sea?'

'Or a desert.'

The helicopter had completely disappeared now. Furn continued looking that way - surely there couldn't have been much fuel left in the tanks; Green Fields must have been close.

'Do you have an armoury?' he asked of DC. 'My gun was taken away by the Integrity Bureau for analysis. They do it every time I shoot someone, which means they must have a cupboard full.'

'If you knew Skidmore, you wouldn't have to ask. There are guns and ammunition, and even more rabbits than ammunition to shoot at.'

'Good.' Furn studied her closely. 'If the C stands for Cantrell, what does the D stand for?'

DC shrugged and headed for the carriages. 'My passport has been shredded too.'

*

The dark carriage had finally been cooled to a comfortable temperature by the desert night. Furn was sleeping soundly. There was a machine gun on the floor beside his fold out crypt-bed and a pistol somewhere under the covers - he would not know where, for he was such a restless sleeper that a gun that began under his pillow could finish up around his ankles. It was not something he liked to be made aware of, so he had thrown the gun in almost as an afterthought. But he could have used it now, for he was being awoken by a gun barrel pressing against his forehead. His eyes opened to its heavy touch and a cold shiver ran through him. He could only see the silhouette of the person behind it, but any hope of this being DC paying him a romantic visit ended with a dark, deep voice.

'You were snoring,' said the man.

Furn swallowed down his beating heart and replied in a calm, steady voice, 'I was dreaming about putting a bullet in your head.'

There was a booming laugh. 'You sound like my wife. Especially now that I've come back to Australia.' The gun quickly retracted from Furn's head. 'Don't worry,' the man continued. 'I would never have taken the shot. With that hard head of yours, I would be too afraid of the ricochet.'

Furn placed the voice and laughed despite himself. It sounded like Breeze was back to his old self, though there was a little more French accent in the voice. Furn sprung up in the bed, the figure standing over him a barely traceable outline.

'Breeze? Is that you?'

'Sure. Do you think I've come back as a ghost?'

'No. Ghosts might be scary, but they're not insulting.'

'Well, that's exactly the kind of ghost I would want to be.'

'Weren't you in France?'

'Technically, but I wasn't there long. We're moving on Skidmore. The Red Line Files has been planted with a tracking device and the pings are coming in loud and clear. It must have been on board your helicopter on the journey out here.'

'A tracking device? Disguised as a bookmark?'

'In the spine.'

'Was that the plan all along?'

'Yeah, to intercept a rogue.' Breeze shone a flashlight into his face. 'Ready to go?'

Furn cringed away. 'It's not the comforts of the rail carriage that would keep me here, but there's a neighbour with a machine gun who might make me think twice about wandering out there in the dark.'

'Unless she sleeps with a gas mark on, that won't be a problem. I dropped a little snooze gas into one of the wall cracks.'

'How long will she be out for?'

'At least till morning. I'd say she's set for a good sleep in.'

'That's unfortunate. I think she may have joined us. She didn't seem to have any loyalty for Skidmore.'

'Are you sure about that? Zulma Pei is not the only person who can mess with someone's head. Even if she is a nice looking girl with a machine gun. But of course it could just be my own head that's been messed with. A bullet in the back did not do much for my trust issues.'

'I'm not sure I'll notice the difference, but it's good to have you back anyway.' Furn sprung up out of his bed to an electric lantern and his pile of discarded clothes. 'Have you been in the neighbourhood long? I can't say I saw you hiding in the bushes.'

'You should've looked up. There was some serious state of the art surveillance hovering around. The same generals that send Colonel Skidmore Christmas cards have been sending us satellites and drones to spy on him.'

'Afraid of their own dirty work?'

'They should be. There was a general not so long ago who dared get a little too curious as to why a top secret poisons facility would be hidden away in a desert and tried to reroute a satellite to take a look. Not a good move as it turned out - not if you're hobby is skydiving. As high up as twenty thousand feet may be, there wasn't enough time for the good general to put the pieces of his parachute back together again.'

'A visit from the Sapiens?'

'No one was charged. Which won't worry us, for we are not the kind of police that make arrests.'

Furn finished his dressing by gathering up his guns. 'Aren't we going to Green Fields with at least the pretense of making an arrest?'

'There may be some handcuffs in the helicopter, but I'm not carrying them.' Breeze stepped away with his mobile phone. 'Two minutes to extraction,' he said loudly into it.

He was first out of the already open door. Furn watched his form and murmured, 'You're moving better than the last time I saw you.'

'It only hurts when I laugh,' replied Breeze, 'which hasn't been a problem for a while.' He strode into space, away from the carriages without any discernible care for his surroundings. Furn supposed it might take some more recuperation before a healthy wariness of bullets returned. He, on the other hand, had enough wariness for both of them, especially when it came to stepping out in front of DC's carriage: he figured her for a light sleeper, even with a room full of gas. The helicopter swooped in for a rapid landing and the dust was once again thrown into a maelstrom. This time, however, it did not taste so bitter; it even tasted a tad sweet. Riley was hanging out the side of the helicopter with a sniper rifle in hand and a pair of night vision goggles on his head. He freed one hand to aid a decidedly stiff Breeze inside the cabin. Furn also lent a hand, pushing from behind, before jumping in himself. The helicopter was then away, ascending like the most gut wrenching of elevators.

Furn, sitting down to a scene of guns, backpacks and mountain bikes said, 'Was Skidmore the target all along?'

Riley slipped off his goggles and nodded. 'Our biggest target yet. Too big for the Red Line Files. Which is just as well considering he would right now be reading about himself. Instead, all he is doing is nibbling on some bait.'

Furn noticed Breeze's hardened expression and wouldn't have envied anyone being caught in this particular trap.

Riley crouched between them. 'Twenty minutes to the drop off point, so pay attention. Especially you, Furn, 'cause you've been out of the loop.'

'Yeah, I'm getting that feeling.'

'We'll have a ten kilometer bike ride into Green Fields and with the quality of terrain we'll anticipate it taking at least an hour. No roads, no tracks. Our informant tells us that access is always made by air, flying low to avoid radar, and all staff are blindfolded on approach. That, and more invasive steps, is how Skidmore has managed to keep the facility so secret. We suspect that there may only be a half dozen people in his inner circle who are privy to Green Field's exact location.'

'But now we know,' said Breeze menacingly.

'Let's not get too carried away with what we know,' replied Riley. 'We have an informant who has sketched the layout of the facility on the back of a napkin. Any surveillance more high tech and Military Intelligence is likely to find out about it. There's a lot that can still go wrong.'

'Is the informant reliable?' queried Furn. 'After all, it might turn out to be us nibbling on bait.'

'I think he is, if only because we are offering him a better promise than Skidmore's: new passports for him and his family and financial backing to create a new life in a city of his choice – oh, and no five years of service and the almost certain prospect of a violent death along the way.

'An informant who happens to be a member of the Australian Foreign Legion?'

Riley nodded. 'It wasn't easy. Military Intelligence has their identities hidden deep. It took a teenage computer hacker facing jail time to get us a name. Getting the soldier to turn was the easy part. And I sense getting him to return the favour to Skidmore of a bullet in the back would not be too hard either. Regrettably, however, he had been sent with the rest of the legion to Borneo on the hunt for Zulma Pei. At least, with any luck, he will get us close to her as well.'

Riley swung across to the backpacks and doled them out to Breeze and Furn. 'Getting close to those two, as you can imagine, does come with hazards. In Skidmore's case, it's all that poison he's so obsessed with. The informant tells me the Green Fields garden is a real piece of work. Apparently even the hay fever will kill you. And doing the gardening is nothing short of suicide - not unless your gardening gloves were produced by NASA.'

'That's what's in the backpacks?' asked Furn.

'That's right. Full body suits. With antidotes in the side pockets. Lots of antidotes. But if it is true, Skidmore has developed his own line of poisons, they might prove the last thing you ever taste.'

'Five minutes,' came the call from the pilot.

As his two charges went through the contents of their backpacks, Riley added, 'You'll notice those protective suits don't come with matching Kevlar body armour and you may also notice there are no antidotes in the side pockets for the lead of a bullet, so keep your wits about you. Even in a high tech facility of death such as Green Fields, a good, old fashioned bullet to the head is still the thing you've got to worry about most.'

'Got it, captain,' said Breeze. 'And that works both ways.'

'Sure does. And I'd imagine you two genius detectives may have figured out by now that we aren't actually working for Colonel Skidmore. You may be even wondering who we are working for.'

Both Furn and Breeze halfheartedly shrugged their shoulders.

'Well, I know better than to clutter your heads with too much detail,' continued Riley, 'suffice to say there were some generals alarmed at how powerful the head of Military Intelligence had become - perhaps, too powerful even to stop. That is the mission they have entrusted me with. And now we will find that out: whether he can be stopped.

'So, all that chasing after scientist's brothers was just a ruse?' queried Furn.

'We were what we had to be. At the beginning, useful allies to find out what he is capable of, and determined enemies once we knew.'

The helicopter banked sharply to the left, levelled out and slowly began to descend groundward.

'Drop point,' cried the pilot.

The three passengers hurriedly gathered up their weapons, backpacks and mountain bikes. Breeze led the way to the door and called back to Riley as he scanned the desert night, 'So, do these generals of yours have names?'

'On a job like this, of course not,' replied Riley, stopping beside him; he planted his mountain bike on the rocky floor. 'But the generals are happy, however, to give the job a name: Directive RIP.'

*

They had thought the sickly sweet scents in the air were merely coming from the vast array of plants within the garden, but then they reached the wreckage of the helicopter and realised the charred bodies might have been contributing as well. The helicopter was bullet ridden and fire damaged and the two bodies protruding from the remnants of the doorway were being illuminated by moonlight, making them easier to identify as Furn poked with the toe of his boot.

'I know them,' he said. 'They're Skidmore's men.'

'How can you be sure?' replied Breeze. 'I mean, it's pretty obvious they've seen better days.'

'They were on the flight I took out here. It's probably the same helicopter as well.' He pointed into the doorway. 'I was sitting there.'

'Did they have anything to say for themselves during the flight?'

'About as much as they do now.'

Riley emerged from a quick look inside the helicopter, keeping low and alert with his machine gun held at the ready.

'No sign of a fight inside the chopper,' he said. 'No sign of Skidmore either.' He knelt before the two bodies. 'I'd say they were ambushed on the way out. Small arms and flame throwers.'

'Do you think it's Zulma Pei?' murmured Furn.

'I don't know, but when I hear that name, I get the sudden urge to duck.' He took out his flashlight. 'You might want to duck too 'cause I'm about to light up a crime scene.'

He shone the flashlight onto the ground and Furn and Breeze dived onto their stomachs, aiming their weapons towards the buildings of the Green Fields compound, the image of flame throwers roasting men alive as vivid in their minds as were the smells in their nostrils.

'Are you going to whistle a nice, loud tune while you're doing it as well?' grumbled Breeze.

'I have to do it,' replied Riley. 'The Red Line Files are still in the helicopter, which tells me Skidmore was here and left in a hurry.'

'If he was in the ambush, he might be in the same shape as these two.'

'Or he might not give a damn about your Red Line Files,' Furn chipped in.

The flashlight was erratically combing the lush grass until locking onto a strip of fresh red that led away into the dense bushes to the side.

'See that,' said Riley excitedly and flicked off the light. 'Fresh blood. And it doesn't come from our two boys here. They're cooked well done.'

'Want us to take a look?' said Breeze.

'Furn and I will go. You stay with the helicopter. You're the one who can fly these things and we may need to get away from here in a hurry.'

'Fly this thing? Are you mad?'

Riley hurried off without reply and was promptly caught up to by Furn; they followed the trail of blood to the fringe of the bushes. They checked their speed there, aware that none of these plants was native or had a predisposition to live in such dry, harsh climate and could only assume that Skidmore's purpose for growing them there was their toxicity - agents of death - quite possibly horrible deaths - and some came with fiendishly long thorns that could easily have ripped through their protective rubber suits.

There had been no barbed wire, no warning signs, no perimetre fences to mark the beginning of the Green Fields facility, nothing to explain this peculiar oasis of green lost amidst a vast, empty desert, just the cooked carcasses of the kangaroos and dingoes that had strayed upon it, littering the ground around it. A grotesque battlefield. A scene of violent death. It was here that the Rogue Intercept officers had first dismounted from the mountain bikes and put on their protective suits. No words were spoken and no words were needed - Riley, Furn and Breeze were in this job because they were comfortable in such situations: At the centre of all this death there was madness, there were people in positions of power who had gone rogue, there were things that needed to be done.

Colonel Skidmore had found those thorns, was slumped within them, unable to move. He was staring out with wide, glazed eyes. Thinned to a trickle, the blood stopped there.

Riley held a flashlight on the grisly scene, confident they were deep enough within the vegetation that the light would not be visible from the compound.

'Colonel,' he said, 'you are under arrest.'

The voice jolted Skidmore out of his daze, his eyes flickering rapidly before finally managing to focus.

'Under arrest? My friend, the trial has come and gone and the verdict is in. It is a death sentence.'

'What are you talking about?'

'There was one plant that could stem the bleeding, is a natural coagulant, but to reach it I had to negotiate a path through plants dripping in lethal poisons.' He lifted out his hands, and the branches, with its thorns gripping, went with him. 'This is as far as I got.'

'What poison is it? We have antidotes.'

'It is you, Detective Riley, isn't it? Riley of the Rogue Intercept Police. I do believe the poison is you.'

'We will save you if we can. Who ambushed you? Are they still in this vicinity?'

Skidmore moved in the thorns as though attempting to raise a blanket. His voice returned in a whisper that was almost lost in the rustling of poison bushes in the breeze: 'They were my men and I believe they have been helping themselves to my garden. If so, they might already be dead, or they may be in the grip of a murderous madness.' He shook his head. 'You can tell people not to eat the fruit, but they really need to find out why for themselves.'

Furn stepped forward, grabbing him by the shirt collar and pulling him from the tree, amidst screams of agony as the thorns ripped away flesh.

'The fruit in your own garden of Eden?' said Furn, dropping him to the ground.

Skidmore chuckled through the pain. 'Maybe the fruit or maybe the weeds. We have been experimenting with a new kind of marijuana. If they have been smoking that, the only high they are going to get is high into psychosis. I did not want to use that as a weapon. It was to be my gift to the world. Who would take party drugs when this is the fun they would be having?' He coughed with blood soaked lungs and cringed with the pain of it. Finally he relaxed the deep creases out of his face and spoke again. 'The particular marijuana strain we have developed is called the Rogue Leaf.' He grimaced with a smile. 'Named in your honour, perhaps.'

'We don't have time for this,' snapped Riley impatiently. 'You can bleed your heart out all you want back at base.' He started moving forward but Skidmore pushed away angrily.

'I cannot be saved and I will not let you waste my last few breaths in the attempt. I am not afraid to be the first victim of the Rogue Leaf and it may even be fitting, for I am its creator. I am not afraid to die, especially not now that I have achieved my own particular brand of immortality: to be feared after death, how many people can lay claim to that?'

Furn shone his torch onto him, confirming what he had thought he was seeing under moonlight: bleached white skin and bloody teeth bared in a mad grin. 'What are you talking about?'

'Wars are only won by those willing to fight dirty and that is why the War on Drugs has been going nowhere for so long. But that is about to change. Operation Harvest is about to begin. It is beginning here and now and if you manage to make it out of here alive, you can tell the world how it all started. Not that you will.' Skidmore grinned some more. 'Those who inhale the Rogue Leaf tend to develop a serious case of the munchies. How else do you think our man lost his hands? He was just writing into his notebook when he was attacked. The man he was trying to observe had turned into a rabid dog, so demented he was able to bite off two hands. I was reluctant to shoot him, for I wanted to see what more he was capable of. But I needed my scientist.'

There was a burst of gunfire from the direction of the helicopter. Riley grabbed Furn by the arm. 'Cuff him and follow me.'

Furn looked at Skidmore and shook his head. 'I didn't bring the cuffs. This will have to do.' He picked him up and flung him hard back into the thorn bush. He gazed at Skidmore a moment longer. 'Was it you that stuffed that dead kangaroo in my car? And shot up the Hyun gang at the train tracks? Stalking me?'

'Perhaps,' muttered Skidmore. 'Perhaps, I wanted to know what you were capable of, too. I have a healthy curiosity.'

'Healthy?'

There was another burst of gunfire. It was further away, coming from somewhere amidst the complex of buildings and greenhouses. Furn jogged that way. He had lost sight of Riley but at the fringe of the clearing found him springing forward.

'We need to take one alive,' snapped Riley, urgently. 'For research purposes. But keep your hands to yourself.'

'You think Skidmore was serious about that?' asked Furn. 'You think we're dealing with cannibals?'

From the bushes a dark shape leapt out at him; Furn reacted quickly, putting a burst of machine gunfire into the shape, eliciting a high pitched scream that was only barely recongisable as human.

'Was that your idea of research?' Riley hissed.

'Sorry.'

Riley trod on the lifeless man's arm and plucked a long bowie knife from his hand. He said into the headset mike, 'Breeze, are you hot?'

'Getting warm,' came the reply into his earpiece.

'Concentrate your fire on the buildings and we'll work the flanks. The garden has got them crazy high, so this is no time to try brushing off your negotiating skills.'

'Negotiating skills?' Breeze, from his position at the helicopter, started spraying the nearest greenhouse with machine gunfire. He soon paused, however, and added, 'It doesn't feel right shooting at people in uniform - in our uniform, that is. Not that they seem to mind doing it themselves.'

Riley chucked aside the bowie knife, aware it was not the right weapon for this fight. 'No, they don't.'

'And you're saying they are high on some herbs from the garden?'

'That's right? We found Skidmore and he tells us they have been smoking marijuana containing a powerful psychotic agent.'

'Well, if they're tripping on something that'll make them paranoid, some noise might push them over the edge. They can sleep it off in the desert. Once they've stopped running.' Breeze went to the helicopter's heavy machine guns and began to hammer the four main buildings relentlessly. Windows smashed and brick walls were pummeled. This was not enough for Breeze, however, and he took to discharging small arms fire as well. The destination of these bullets was less obvious and Riley pulled down on Furn, saying, 'We could be scared to death ourselves by this.'

The machine gun fire finally paused, though only long enough for a Rocket Propelled Grenade to be unleashed on the centre building.

'Jeez,' said Riley. 'If there's an ordinance in that helicopter, he's going to fire it.'

'And you get the feeling that helicopter is an ammo-dump with rotor blades on top,' added Furn.

Riley changed the frequency on his two-way radio and went back to his mike, yelling, 'HQ, are you there?'

'Yes, here,' came the prompt reply. It was Azu Nashy.

'Tell the generals they can now safely intervene. Green Fields is open. But let them know if they still want to keep Skidmore on the project, they'll have to intervene in a hurry. Got that?'

'Got it,' said Nashy. 'Did you extract Furn successfully?'

'He's fine. Is our transport organised?'

'The generals have got a fast jet reserved for you. Now they have what they want, I'm sure they would suggest the faster the better.'

'We'll take that. Out.'

Breeze was back to the heavy machine gun.

Riley flicked a glance to Furn and nodded. 'I think he needs this.'

*

Doctor Jachom was washing his hands carefully, massaging each finger in long strokes, liberally applying the pink anti-bacterial soap at frequent intervals in a pre-operation ritual he held as sacred. The surgical mask had gone on early, earlier than other doctors might have it. The eyes that peered over them were dark and cold and every bit as still as his hands upon a scalpel. They did not flicker from their purpose as the nurse pushed open the door of the scrub room.

'Dr Jachom, the anesthetist is here,' she said.

The voice that came through the mask was gravelly and bore a Dutch accent. 'Bring him in and get him prepped.'

Breeze squeezed past the nurse to the hand basin, putting on his surgical mask to complement his light blue operating garb.

'Sorry for my lateness,' he said.

Dr Jachom looked him up and down with a hard deliberateness. 'Are you apologising for the week that's passed or the two hours today? The only reason I have remained in residence is my interest in the procedure to be performed, and the frustration of having my patients ready to participate.'

'There was nothing I could do,' explained Breeze, 'Back problems.'

'Well, you've come with an impressive reputation. In fact, am told you are indispensable to the operation. Today we will be putting you to the test. This is a complicated procedure. You should best scrub up.'

'I can see you are well scrubbed yourself,' replied Breeze as he strode forward, 'which is good.' He struck Jachom with a brutal right hook that sent him crashing to the floor. 'It means my handcuffs will stay clean.' He kicked Jachom hard in the stomach and extracted the handcuffs and a revolver to go with them. 'Not such a complicated procedure, after all.' He turned his head into his collar mike. 'Dr Breeze has administered his own brand of anesthesia. Bring in a stretcher. Our boy might need a real doctor.'

With the doctor secured, he stepped through the swing doors into the operating theatre. Beside the operating table there were two beds. A gagged Wragg Dokomad was strapped into one while Dr Gustav Dokomad was sitting up in the other. Breeze focussed his attention on Gustav, and although doubting Gustav was much of a threat with his two wrist stumps wrapped in gauze, he kept his pistol at the ready behind his back all the same.

'A touching family reunion,' Breeze muttered. 'And if you get your way, it will be you doing all the touching after the operation, right?'

'You are the anesthetist we have been waiting for?' snapped Gustav curtly.

Breeze could see the family resemblance in the man: an older version of Wragg with a slightly narrower jaw and a thicker neck. An icier look in the eyes, too.

'Yes, I am,' said Breeze. 'But before we begin the procedure I would like to know something more about the nature of your injuries. Is it true they were incurred by a research subject under the influence of a narcotic?'

Gustav's eyes darkened with a rage. 'What business is that of an anesthetist?'

'It might be relevant to the procedure. You will just have to trust me on that.'

'Well, a little dog ate them,' snapped Gustav belligerently. 'Now let's get on with it.'

'A little dog?'

'Yes, that's right.'

'Did it look something like this?' Breeze pulled out the pistol and aimed it at Gustav's chest. 'Small little thing, but with quite a bite to it.' He glanced at Wragg, who had gone about as pale as the bed sheets. 'Congratulations, you'll get to keep your hands, after all. Something to grab onto the prison bars with.' His eyes returned to Gustav. 'There are amazing artificial hands these days, which will allow you live a relatively normal life. Cooperate with us and we will cover the costs.'

'How kind of you.'

'You may not have foreseen what your genetically modified narcotics would do, but it has turned the Green Fields research site into a bloodbath. Your security detail were found dead in the bushes, having developed a serious case of the munchies for each other's throats.'

Gustav remained unmoved. 'Then I will have something to negotiate with, won't I? And I can assure you I will be negotiating in a much more comfortable environment than this damned hospital and with people much more important than you. People with very good reason to worry about where the Rogue Leaf might turn up next.'

Breeze frowned and aimed the pistol between Gustav's eyes. 'I like your style,' he murmured.

*

Dr Franz Flant was tied to a rickety chair in a desolate room with one barred window to let in a smidgeon of light. The steamy heat of Borneo was suffocating and Flant was saturated in perspiration. Zulma Pei was standing beside him and looked much cooler. She tested Flant's bonds and the gag to reassure herself they were strong enough to hold for the moment at least; then she gathered up her things from the plastic table beside the chair: her handbag, summer hat and Gucci handbag.

'I'm afraid I must be going,' she said. 'I apologise for the manner in which your little expedition has come to an end. But seeing you float down that jungle river in an old raft, I got the impression it was not too comfortable to begin with. Could I assume you enjoy roughing it up?'

She put on the hat and worked with the brim until the tilt was too her liking. It was a pristinely white hat with an elegant floral trim and it stylishly complemented her equally white linen jacket, blouse and skirt. She put on her glasses then and finally swung the handbag over her shoulder. That left on the table only Flant's expedition rucksack. She opened it up and smirked cruelly as she peered into the wide array of herbs, mosses and flowers.

'I wouldn't dream of leaving you here without the fruits of your labour. Unfortunately though, these are the only provisions you're going to have, and you may be here for a very long time. You see, now that I know where Green Fields is, I'm going to pay it a visit. And once I've destroyed it and Skidmore, I might just treat myself to a holiday – something long and pleasant.' She winked knowingly. 'If you find yourself thirsty, you might consider drinking this one.' She plucked out a red flowered plant from the rucksack. 'My bandit friends tell me it contains a sweet juice. They did, however, impress on me that the juice causes blindness and madness to boot. But hell, if you're thirsty enough, it'll just have to do.' She dropped the flower and peered deeper into the bag. 'And if you're feeling a little hungry, there are some black berries that will put your digestion to work. It was explained to me as being akin to a particularly crude hand grenade.' She pushed the rucksack along the table to be a little closer. 'But who am I to lecture? After all, you're a botanist and it's your bag. I'm sure you could conduct a whole speaking tour on its contents. The sad thing is there's going to be no one to hear you in this particular venue, not even if you scream a thousand screams. You're in a basement in a disused factory. Thick concrete walls and iron doors that the bandits have claimed from a disused prison. In fact, the only reason I've put the gag on is I prefer it when my patients do not talk. I wish I could have done it more often.'

Pei stood still a moment longer, wanting to milk the anxiety in Flant's eyes. She wanted to see tears. She wanted to see him break. Alas, however, he was holding on and she had a plane to catch. She marched out the basement cell and carefully locked the door behind her.

There were soft whisperings down the corridor from cell containing the remaining survivors of the Flant expedition. Pei had played a different game with them: leading them to believe their best chance of release was demonstrating complete cooperation and obedience. In truth, she did not know nor care what would be their fate. She suspected Cantrell Collin's bandit friends might endeavor to ransom them. Flant, at least, might be worth something.

Pei hurried up the basement stairs, cowering as low as possible under the grotesque blanket of cobwebs covering the roof, grasping onto her hat for fear they might brush against them – she could not even bring herself to shine her flashlight that way, for so many childhood nightmares had looked just like this. She reached the ground floor and weaved a path through abandoned crates and boxes to leave the factory through a clapped out, rusted door. A Range Rover was waiting in the weed ridden car park ahead. Canter Collins was leaning out the driver's side window, squinting with the heat of the day and glowering at his watch.

'You'll miss your flight.'

'I'm coming.'

Collins revved the engine hard and the moment Pei was in the seat beside him set the car into a skidding one hundred and eighty degree turn. He sped out past the sagging perimeter gates and took a right hand turn onto the dusty road for Mirio.

'Did he have anything to say?' he queried.

'No, I was just there to say farewell,' Pei calmly replied. 'He's already told me everything I need to know.'

Collins paused. 'Do you really think going after Skidmore is wise? He's the head of Military Intelligence, no less.'

'I always advise my patients to confront their bullies. So, how would it be if I didn't do anything about him?'

'Well, can't you at least wait a few weeks for the heat to die down? I'll fly you back to Australia myself then.'

'That would not do. The information I have obtained from the good Dr Flant is as fresh as the Green Field lilies. No use waiting for it to go stale. And besides, my passports are solid. My father gave me my first fake passport for my sixteenth birthday.'

Collins smirked, starting to relax about the time: the run into town was looking promising with only a few cars about and the roadside buildings already starting to show the modern appearance of the city fringe.

'So, what will you do when you get your hands on him?'

'The lobotomy has always been the last resort for the most extreme psychotic cases. And, as you mentioned, we are dealing with the head of Military Intelligence.' She laughed at her pun. 'A head that is about to get particularly disfigured, for I must confess a knowledge gap with this procedure. Fortunately, there will be more enemies, more opportunities to learn.'

They came upon a red light and Collins took the opportunity to glance across at Pei, searching for any hint of hubris in her steely, assured countenance. Pei recognized what he was looking for and remembered how proud she used to make her father by never wavering.

'An enemy is just a collection of disagreeable opinions,' she said defiantly, 'and should not be allowed to fester. Lying on a therapist's couch and just talking about them is a coward's way. The cure of the brave is to go direct to the source.'

'Your banker came through.'

'Yes, all debts paid.'

'You really can make yourself rich selling your methods all around the world.'

'Fifteen out of twenty Sapiens carried out the crimes they had been programmed with. That is a selling point.'

'Quite. But I trust you are not considering going anywhere near the drop off points now. There is every chance they will be compromised.'

Collins returned his attention to the traffic lights, and was just in time to catch a blur of movement in the rearview mirror: it was an oncoming SUV and the impact came with a neck wrenching shudder.

Pei was out the car in a flash, rushing at the red box of a vehicle that had decimated their rear bumper-bar. 'Where the hell did you learn to drive?' she screamed.

The front doors of the SUV flung open and Furn and Breeze calmly stepped out with guns aimed.

'RIP,' Breeze said.

