Defender (28 page)

The entire left side of his face was dreadfully scarred. From forehead
to
neck, spilling over
to
his chin, an appalling burn masked him in a cowl of blistered disfigurement. Behind the heavy tortoiseshell glasses, his left eyelid had borne the brunt of the damage, barely covering a dark, lifeless eye. His brown hair on the left side was patchy, and he had grown it to shield the full frightening impact of the injury. The nose and left ear were angrily deformed, and a latticework of discoloured scar tissue sat tight and raw across his face and neck. The whole hideous mess retreated into the collar of a beautiful camel cashmere rollneck sweater and, she presumed, because of the gauze visible on his hand, probably continued all the way down the left arm.

For an instant, Christine fell into a trance-like state.

'I'm sure you'll find that that's me on the passport," he said to her quietly. "Not likely to be two of us in the airport, is there?"

Christine's eyes watered when she realised what she had done, and her face flushed scarlet. She was overwhelmed by the distress she felt at humiliating the poor man in full view of the people around them.

"I am so very sorry, Mr. Bogle," she said, reading from his passport. ''I've had a really long day and I'm due for a break..."

He cut her off with a politely raised hand, reassuring that there was no need to apologise. Christine smiled nervously and proceeded to stamp his passport without a second glance.

As he moved off towards baggage collection, the Customs Officer felt empty and ashamed.

An hour later, having left the airport and paid the taxi driver, the man locked himself into the privacy of a small townhouse in Victoria Park, on the edge of the city. In his usual fastidious manner, he minutely inspected the townhouse, unoccupied for months. He checked all the windows and the back door, then headed straight for the bathroom, closing the door.

For five minutes he stood in front of the mirror. He studied every inch of his hideous face, touching and prodding, making a thorough examination. Satisfied, he opened the cabinet. Relieved to find everything was there, he retrieved a large bottle of alcohol, some brushes and an assortment of cotton swabs and cloth. He stripped.

He reached for his eyelids and cautiously recovered dark brown contact lenses from each eye. He flushed his red eyes with drops to ease the irritation. Then, reaching for an ugly red fold of skin on his hairline and rubbing with force, the first layer raised, easing back a small rubbery flap. Next, he picked up a brush that he'd laid out beside the basin. Dipping it into alcohol, he focused his attention on the flap of skin, painting the solution on behind it. The alcohol slowly dissolved the spirit gum, allowing the latex integument to peel away, revealing his own skin beneath. It was excruciatingly slow, taking an hour to remove the entire grotesque disguise.

As a wall clock in the lounge chimed midnight, Victor Lundt looked back at himself in the mirror. His skin was reddened and sensitive to the touch, and the basin was full of discarded latex and hair.

A smile of triumph animated his aching face.

He'd done it. Disguise was nothing new for Lundt, but this time he'd been forced to take a significantly greater risk, flying 15 hours non-stop with all that plastic shit stuck to his face. He was lucky that Cheng was able to meet him in Jo'burg to apply it. The movie special effects expert had been worried that the glue wouldn't last the entire flight, exposed to air-conditioning, sweat and movement. It was nothing like the movies, where actors pulled fake faces on and off as if they were changing hats.

It was a risk Lundt had to take, with INTERPOL and the rest of the world's law enforcement agencies looking for him, expecting him to head for Europe. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He'd rightly figured no one was going to bother a guy in Bogle's condition.

Lundt showered for 20 minutes, luxuriating under the sting of hot water on his body. He thought again about his choice of customs officer. He'd watched them all at work and knew the young one would be perfect. She was screwed as soon as she looked up. Lundt laughed to himself when he remembered how easy it had been to set up the young couple, too. Dropping cash in the right pocket at Jo'burg and setting the innocent backpackers up as mules had also worked a treat. It drew the attention of the Perth airport customs twits. Lundt didn't have any idea who the other guy was. In any event, he was a bonus, too.

On the rare occasions that he'd resorted to disguise, Lundt used masks based on lifelike disfigurement. They induced sympathy and disinclination toward protracted scrutiny of his facial features when viewed alongside the accompanying image within one of a number of false passports. Of course, having access to a movie effects specialist like Cheng, and a selection of corresponding face and passport choices was gold.

Lundt had been through the rigmarole of sitting for plaster casts that Cheng used to make moulds of his face. They had spent days viewing photographs of real facial injuries and disfigurements before settling upon two options. Cheng made up the masks, and by way of rehearsal, Lundt had walked to a number of different places in full make-up to have the passport photos taken. Then it was just a simple matter of giving the photos and two alternative identities to Phil, his long-standing contact at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, and the passports were done.
It
was an expensive business, he thought, as he turned off the steaming water but, it had kept him well clear of the stupid plods.

Lundt walked into the bedroom, turned his phone back on, and stretched out naked upon the bare mattress. Now safely in Australia, his priority was to get back in the game.
It
had been a day since he last spoke to Cornell. A lot can happen in 24 hours.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed, heralding a stream of messages. The first, a message from Johnson. He read it and let out a deep groan, as if he didn't have enough to deal with already.

He had agreed to take care of Cornell but there was more. Johnson had arranged for the girl to shadow Cornell. She'd be in Sydney, too, and now he wanted her sorted out.
It
was getting far too complicated. Johnson was treating him like nothing more than hired muscle. Lundt didn't like it. His instinct told him to be on guard.

He read the message again.

As lights from passing cars danced through the blinds and across the walls of the bedroom, a cowl of menace fell upon Lundt's face.

Well, if it meant clearing up loose ends, then so be it. But if Johnson was setting him up . . . well, it was time the gloves came off.

He'd rest tomorrow, make some calls and, importantly, make sure his Sydney crew was ready when he arrived. You never could tell. Back-up would be wise. He'd take a domestic flight to Sydney tomorrow night.

Ina moment, Victor Lundt was sound asleep.

Alex Morgan entered the four-digit PIN provided by Sutherland into the security keypad, easing his hire car off Castlereagh Street and through the roller door into the car park. He negotiated the tight, descending spiral of the garage before finding a spot.

Morgan was tired from the flight but exhilarated at the promise of areturn to the chase. He could feel Lundt under his skin. At least now, he mused, they were both in the same hemisphere. Or were they? Simultaneously, his musings closed in on Arena. She was, he knew for certain, closer still. But there his exhilaration left him. What sort of reception could he expect from her? He'd received nothing until the distress flare email a couple of days ago which he'
cl
opened back in Davenport's office. Morgan felt the familiar hand of melancholy reaching up for him and shut it down. There was no point. He'd remain professional, just as he told himself during the flight, when his thoughts and dreams were consumed by her. A few minutes later he entered the Hyde Park Regency reception area, stepping out from the elevator. Dave Sutherland was waiting for him.

"Where is she?" Morgan asked, setting down his bag and attache case. "Don't I even get a hug?"

"Piss off, Dave. We said hello on the phone," Morgan replied warmly.

They shook hands. "So, where is she?"

"Upstairs pining for you," the former US Navy SEAL winked. "Of course she is."

"You wish," Sutherland laughed. "She's locked herself inside pretty much the entire time since she arrived yesterday. Just reading, online, listening to music. We've had a couple of brief chats, to give her a heads-up on the latest. She's avoiding the phone, but seemed fine when I dropped in to check on her. She's holding it together. Occasionally gets some air out on the sundeck. She's drop-dead gorgeous, you lucky bastard!"

"I know. Jesus, it's bloody hot!"

"You said it. 38 degrees Celsius. That's 100 degrees in the old currency.

Been like this for days, but they say a storm's coming."

"That'll help with the bushfires," Morgan said. He released his tie and stretched, gazing around the immediate surrounds. For a moment, he was thrown back in time as he saw the ANZAC War Memorial across Elizabeth Street in Hyde Park. The Art Deco memorial housed arguably the most moving tribute
to
fallen soldiers Morgan had ever seen, Hoff's incredibly confronting bronze sculpture of a dead young soldier, held aloft upon a shield by three women: mother, sister and wife. He hadn't seen it in years. "Anyway, I'm not sure about the lucky bit, mate. That remains to be seen. I better check in. How's your knee, by the way? Boss mentioned you'd had surgery."

"It's pissing me off, but getting better slowly. I've taken care of everything, bud. We're booked in under the names we travelled here on. Get straight on up and see her if you want. I can get your bags sorted out. She's in room 109."

"Cheers, Dave," said Morgan. "But I think I'll get a shower and straighten up first."

"Alex, I know you like this girl, I know she messed you around some, and I know you're still pretty pissed about it. You think you can manage this? You know, stay on task?"

'Tll be fine," Morgan responded humourlessly. 'I'm sure her intention is to keep it professional, too. I can handle that."

"OK. So, you want the word on Cornell and Lundt?" Dave asked, tactfully changing topic. Morgan nodded. "Cornell's in Sydney. He's staying at the Novotel, Darling Harbour. Know it? New South Wales cops have got eyes on him and they'll keep me posted if he so much as gets up to go to the bathroom." "Boss says you kept Cornell company on the flight out here," said

Morgan, knowingly.

"Oh yeah. You should have seen the look on the poor bastard's face, man. He turned grey when I told him who I was. I think he was planning to hit on me..." Sutherland smiled. "Can't blame him."

"There's no accounting for his taste," Morgan laughed. "So what's the score now?"

"Well, bud, during the last 16 hours of our flight, I took our friend

Cornell through the surveillance reports and photos we have, documenting his movements in London over the past couple of weeks, including his call for help to Johnson."

"How'd he take it?"

"Not well,' Sutherland smiled. "He had no idea Johnson had been pulling his strings all this time, said he'd been dealing with someone totally anonymous to him via some email procedure. Using star signs to identify themselves. Needless to say, Mr. Cornell is now more than willing to contribute if it means keeping his arse out of the electric chair."

"They don't use the chair in England, Dave."

"Maybe they should," Sutherland countered, meaning it. "Everything set for this to play out as per the plan?"

"Sure is," Sutherland replied. "According to Cornell, Johnson sent him out here to facilitate a meeting between Lundt and some guy who's representing the alternate President."

"Sounds a bit unnecessary, don't you think? Sending Cornell all the way out here to set up a meeting. Sounds like something Lundt could have arranged himself."

"I agree. Sounds more like an excuse for Johnson to get Cornell out of England for a while."

"Never to return," said Morgan with a wry smile.

"Makes sense," agreed Sutherland. "The key thing is to be sure we can cover wherever this meeting's going to happen. Cornell doesn't know the location yet."

"What about local cops?" Morgan queried. "Any support?"

"Oh yeah. We're partnering with the New South Wales Police Counter Terrorism and Special Tactics Command. Our contact is a guy named Stojakovic. John Stojakovic. Police Inspector. Good man. Steady. He's already got surveillance teams organised and on station down at the Novotel. Cornell told me his instructions were to stay put at the hotel and wait to be contacted from there. The cops will shadow Cornell, monitor his phone and internet, and report developments to me. I'll then feed the info to your girl; she'll feed it straight to Johnson - as per his instructions to her - and he'll be none the wiser."

"As long as she can keep her wits.
If
Johnson smells a rat, there's every possibility we'll lose him and Lundt."

"So far, Cornell hasn't met anyone, and hasn't used the phone or the net. We have to hope he sticks to the plan. This is his only possible chance to walk away without a life sentence, and I've made that crystal clear. No word on Lundt yet, but the Australian Federal Police are watching the airports for us."

"How's Arena dealing with the revelations about Johnson?" Morgan asked.

"OK, considering. But, I guess she'll talk through that with you.

Meanwhile, I'm about to meet Stojakovic for an update."

"Sounds good," said Morgan. "You need me to come along?"

"I got it covered, bud. You'd better get on," replied Sutherland. "Chow later?"