Dragons at the Party. Jon Cleary
looking around for a PM they could manipulate into the correct right-wing attitudes, had taken him in hand and within six years put him in The Lodge, the Prime Minister’s residence in Canberra. He had been there five years now, was in his second term and, though known as the Golden Puppet, so far looked safe from any real opposition.
‘We have a problem here, Inspector.’ He was famous for his fatuities: it came of too many years of playing to the lowest common denominator.
‘Yes, sir.’ Malone looked at Leeds, his boss, who was entitled to know first. ‘We have a lead. We think the killer could be Miguel Seville.’
‘Seville?’ said Norval. ‘Who’s he? Some guy from Palucca?’
‘He’s an international terrorist, an Argentinian.’ Leeds was perturbed, looked searchingly at Malone. ‘You sure?’
‘It’s a guess, sir, but an educated one.’
Norval looked at one of his aides for his own education: it was tough enough trying to keep up with the voters’ names, let alone those of terrorists. The aide nodded and Norval himself then nodded. ‘Oh sure, I’ve read about him. But how did he get into the act?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Malone. ‘I’m just going in now to put some more questions to President Timori.’
‘Take it easy, Inspector,’ said Norval. ‘You’d better explain what we’ve decided, Commissioner. Keep in touch.’
He shook hands with Leeds, Malone and even Clements, looked around to make sure he hadn’t missed an outstretched paw, then went up the driveway to the waiting cars. Just inside the gates he stopped and raised his arms in greeting to the crowd at the barriers. The demonstrators booed and jeered and suggested several unattractive destinations. He just gave them the famous smile, aware of the newsreel cameras advancing on him, then got into the lead car and the convoy moved off. The Golden Puppet might be manipulated in significant matters, but no one knew better than he how to juggle the superficial.
‘What’s been decided, sir?’ said Malone.
‘Would you leave us alone for five minutes, Sergeant?’ Leeds waited till Clements had moved away, then said, ‘The PM would like us to have hands-off as much as possible.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘Don’t get testy with me, Inspector –’
‘Sorry, sir. But why?’
‘Politics. You and I have run up against them before. I understand the dead man, Masutir, had a bag of emeralds in his pocket, a pretty rich packet.’
‘I wouldn’t even guess – none of us knows anything about gems. I could ask Madame Timori. Sergeant Kenthurst, from the Federals, said she grabbed them as soon as she saw them.’
‘She’s not going to tell us anything about them. That’s part of our problem – they’ve landed out here with what seems like half the Paluccan Treasury. The RAAF who brought them out of Bunda also brought six packing cases. Customs went up to Richmond last night, to the RAAF base, and went through the cases.’
‘I thought the Timoris would have claimed diplomatic immunity.’
‘They would have, if they’d known what was happening. It wasn’t a ministerial order. Some smart aleck in Customs, one of the left-wingers, overstepped the mark. The cases were opened and the contents down on paper before the Minister got wind of it. You know what happens when something goes down on paper in a government department. It becomes indelible and then multiplies.’
Malone grinned. ‘I thought that’s what happens at Headquarters?’
‘Do you want to finish up as the constable in charge of a one-man station in the bush?’ But Leeds allowed himself a smile; then he sobered again: ‘The Timoris brought out an estimated twenty-two million dollars’ worth of gold, gems and US currency.’
Malone whistled silently and Leeds nodded. Though there was a considerable difference in rank, there was an empathy between the two men. Twice before they had been caught up in politics, with Malone as the ball-carrier and the Commissioner, in the end, having to call the play. Malone began to wonder how far he would be allowed to carry the ball in this game. Perhaps he should send for Thumper Murphy and his sledge-hammer.
‘There’s a rumour they have a couple of billion salted away in Switzerland. It’s no wonder the Americans didn’t want them.’
‘How did we get landed with them?’ Malone said.
‘I thought you knew. Madame Timori was an old girl-friend of the PM’s.’
Malone could feel the ball getting heavier. He looked over Leeds’ shoulder and saw that Madame Timori, in white slacks and a yellow silk shirt, had come out on to the veranda of the house and was gazing steadily at him and the Commissioner.
‘Well, I’d better get it over with. Just routine questions?’
‘Unless you put your foot in it again, like you used to.’ Leeds buttoned up his blazer. The morning was already hot, the temperature already in the eighties, but he looked as if he might be in his air-conditioned office. ‘Your tie’s loose.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Malone tightened his tie. ‘I’m afraid Madame Timori may want to hang me with it.’
‘Don’t look for me to cut you down. Good luck.’
He went out of the gates and Malone was left feeling alone and exposed. Twenty-two years ago, in his first representative game for the State, he had gone in as the last-wicket batsman to face two of the quickest bowlers in the country. One of them had hit him under the heart with his first ball and he bad gone down like a pole-axed steer. He had somehow recovered and seen out the rest of the over and on the last ball, foolishly, had scored a run to bring him to the other end. There he had been hit twice in the ribs by the second bowler and he had found himself wondering why he had taken up such a dangerous sport as cricket. The bruises had taken two weeks to fade.
He walked towards Madame Timori wondering how long the bruises she would give him would take to fade.
1
Miguel Seville hated Australia and Australians. Not on political or ideological grounds; it was difficult to take seriously the parish pump policies of this backwater. No, he hated the country, or anyway Sydney, because it was so brash, materialistic and uncultured compared to his own Buenos Aires; he hated the people for the same grating faults. He had been here once before at the secret invitation of an Aboriginal radical group; he had found the blacks as objectionable as the whites. Loud, brash, with opinions on everything: nobody wanted to learn, especially from a foreigner, even an invited one. With the disappearance of Carlos, he had become the top man in his trade; but the Aboriginal radicals had wanted to argue every point with him. In the end he had walked out on them and gone back to Damascus.
That was where he had been two weeks ago when the phone call had come from Beirut. He had gone down to that ruined city and in an apartment in the Muslim quarter met the man who had phoned him.
‘You will be paid one million American dollars.’
Seville tried to show no surprise; but it was difficult. His price was high, but it had never been as high as this. All at once the recent dreaming might come true: he could retire, go back to Argentina and be amongst his own again.
‘Less my ten per cent.’ Rah Zaid was a thin, thin-faced, thin-eyed man who always, no matter what the weather or the time of year, wore a neatly-pressed black silk suit and an Arab head-dress. He had a husky voice that suggested over-exposure to desert sandstorms; the truth, less romantic, was overexposure to American cigarettes. He was smoking now, almost shutting his eyes against the smoke. The air in the apartment was acrid,