Redback (6 page)

In the meantime, it was evident she wasn't the only ex-hostage trying to avoid the delegate
they'd been forced to spend the last four days with. For example the leggy Kiwi Shirley Moore, who'd
driven Sally Tan to distraction with unrelenting hysteria, was now enjoying the manly ministrations
of Alan Wagner. Their location, on the other side of the mess, pleased Jana and Sally no end as
they'd already agreed that the handsome yobbo and the gorgeous bimbo were a blonde joke waiting to
happen.

'Pity we can't shut them up as well,' Sally observed, as everyone in the mess had to endure
Alan's insightful opinion of women in uniform.

'I'm all for it,' he was saying, 'especially if they're half out of it, and in a Playboy
centrefold.'

'Careful, Alan,' one of the two American delegates advised. 'I'd wager Dr Smith - you know, that
woman in the uniform with the nice guns who helped rescue us - would eat you for breakfast.'

'Colin mate,' Alan sneered, 'I'll wager - and you can fire me from a torpedo tube if I'm wrong -
but I bet you that that chick was nothing more than a medic.'

'I thought her name was Jones. Captain Jones,' said Hilary Bennet from Tourism Victoria.

'Alan,' Jana said, 'I think you'll find that the
Commander
was in charge of our rescue.'

'I don't think she's a soldier at all,' the Queensland tourism rep pronounced. 'I reckon she's a
spy. I think they were all spies.'

'I'm with you John,' said Mary Copes, the Hawaiian. 'I heard one of the officers on this vessel
call her Agent-something.'

An attention drawing tap-tap on the hatchway had the desired effect. Jana was delighted to see
one of the so-called Redbacks - the young one who'd been in her boat; but he wasn't exactly smiling.

'In order to kybosh any further rumour and slander, I will confirm that the ungrateful prick with
the naked soldier fetish,' Coop said, staring at Alan, 'is kinda right with his 'doctor' comment.'

'I knew it,' Alan stated, completely missing the insult.

'Yeah,' Cooper nodded. 'Smith - or Jones - is not even a medic. She's a Doctor of History.'

'Oh man, Alan,' Colin Davies observed. 'You are in for it.'

'Too right,' Cooper agreed. 'I recommend a forward tube, mate, and I bloody hope you can swim.'

Everyone in the mess, except Alan and Kiwi Shirley, laughed, or tried not to.

'And right now, our squad
leader
and
mission commander
,' Cooper enunciated, 'needs
to speak to all of you in turn before we reach Wellington. She, and Agent Brand from ASIS, have
asked that you present yourselves in pairs; that is, with the same person you were locked up with on
Laui. And if someone could make a list of how that was, it'd make the process faster.'

'I can do that,' Jana offered.

'Actually, you're up first Dr Rossi,' Cooper said, leaning down. 'Who were you with?'

'The ungrateful prick,' Jana smiled.

'Oh.'

'He says his name is Alan Wagner.' She raised an eyebrow. 'And he claims he 'knows' people.'

Cooper grinned. 'You'd be wanting to help me and the boss load that tube later then.'

'Oh yes, please,' Jana said.

'I can make the list for you,' Sally Tan offered.

'Thank you,' Cooper said, then straightened up. 'Hey, Shark Bait! Front and centre.'

After leading them through several hatchways, Cooper opened a door to a space furnished with a
table, chairs and bookshelves, but he ushered only Alan inside.

'Agent Brand will be right here Mr Wagner. Or whoever you are,' he said, closing the door on the
journalist just as he began demanding 'what the hell' the soldier meant by that.

'I totally approve, but what's going on?' Jana began.

'You obviously do know people, Dr Rossi. You get a private pre-debriefing debrief.' Cooper led
the way to the cabin marked Commanding Officer. He knocked, opened the door and then left her to it.

Jana stepped into the relative spaciousness of the skipper's cabin but was surprised to find that
the submarine's stocky, balding and white-uniformed Commander McClure, who had welcomed them all on
board just off Laui Island, was not there.

Instead she was confronted with the blue-jeaned backside of an obviously tall person in the midst
of tying a shoelace, while talking to someone else.

Except there was no one else. Jana cleared her throat.

The lithe but well-muscled person snapped to attention and blinked. 'Sorry, didn't hear you come
in.'

Jana was so completely taken aback that she just stood there. She was almost sure she knew who
this stunning individual was, but, but…

'You okay, Doc?'

Jana nodded, even though this was not her usual reaction to meeting anyone, especially for the
second time.

'You sure? You want to sit down?'

Jana shook her head at the raven-haired, blue-eyed soldier who'd rescued her from captivity,
saved her from a fate worse than death, and then from death itself.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to work out why she'd just fallen, in a bizarre kind of
cerebral way, for her rescuer. She was savvy enough to realise her reaction was obviously a
variation on the Stockholm Syndrome. But real or not, right here, right now Jana Isobel Rossi knew
she was ready to swear that oath of allegiance she'd rain-checked earlier.

'Commander Gideon,' she managed to say.

'Dr Rossi,' Gideon said, with the raise of an eyebrow to acknowledge the obvious.

Tokyo, Japan
Tuesday 8 pm

Energetic, psychedelic and insanely vibrant, Tokyo's Harajuku district was a
pulsing synthetic-organic citybeing. Its circulatory system pumped a steady stream of staidly
dressed or strangely-costumed life forms, all weaving to a streetside soundtrack of oriental twang,
techno-opera and rap-doof.

Assailed by a heady dose of the real and surreal, it was with his writer's sensibility that Scott
Dreher registered the suited-salarymen, Manga clones, tourists, kimonoed or mini-skirted women, and
gangs of blonde Japanese Goths. This was
Blade Runner
territory without the flying taxis,
faux animals and blimps advertising off-world employment, and Scott was revelling in every cold and
drizzly moment of it.

He was even starting to think that, if he gave up his futile little quest he could do this all
the time.

If he gave up the things that made him serious, for a life of serious living, he could enjoy
foreign or familiar moments for what they were. He could sit at the edge of the rain in a noodle bar
like this one, or a café or park anywhere in the world and just soak up the ambience - for
the hell of it. Somewhere public would be a place to sit solo, or meet friends to eat or drink,
instead of what it had become for him: a safe environment to wait for a clandestine reason that had
nothing to do with food, local culture or friendship.

It had been six years since he'd written a story where his name wasn't the first or only reason
for its publication; where the issue itself was worth paying attention to, regardless of who wrote
about it.

Scott Dreher: political and social analyst extraordinaire - a name to be reckoned with.

Well, now he had the story of his career and he couldn't write it. Not yet anyway.

It was more valuable - in terms of newsworthiness - than nearly everything he'd had published in
the last decade. Even his book was 'after the fact'. He rubbed his face in frustration. But, going
public too soon could risk lives, his own even, and he was pretty sure his own was worth hanging on
to.

Conversely, waiting too long might have dire consequences for three or four countries, not to
mention several specific individuals. It was just a pity he didn't yet know who, or when, or where
in the world.

Scott nodded his thanks to the waiter who pushed a bowl of
udon
noodles and a Sapporo beer
across the counter to him. Then he scanned the street for his contact again. There was still no sign
of him.

Five feral-haired girls, giggling over a magazine with an excessively-tattooed boy band on the
cover, surged by and into the establishment next door for a Big Mac and fries.
Man! Talk about
cultural train wreck.

Now there's an idea. He could go back to writing about the things that people really care about,
instead of the things they should. Or think they should. He could be a travel writer instead of a
foreign correspondent, a tourist instead of an analyst, an anonymous chronicler rather than a famous
reporter. Hell, take up active participation, instead of objective bystanding.
Yeah right
.
Scott tasted the noodles, burnt his tongue and reached for his beer. He could give up the political
and live the personal. Now that'd be an adventure worth telling the world to get stuffed over. He'd
be bored in a week.

And someone is watching me.

He pretended his attention had been caught by a passing curiosity and casually swivelled on his
stool. He still couldn't see anyone who resembled the magazine photo he'd seen of his contact, but
twice now, when the passing crowds allowed a view, he had glimpsed someone staring his way.

Ah, there. A woman? Now that's a surprise.

She caught him catching her out, looked startled and stepped back out of view.

Scott kept his gaze on the doorway across the street, casually dangling his beer bottle between
his fingers. Sure enough, a moment later, she reappeared. She pulled the collar of her huge coat up
around her ears, glanced around nervously, and began crossing the wet street towards him.

He'd assumed she was Japanese but on ever-closer inspection it was apparent she was something
else as well, something Western. Without a word she sat down on the stool next to him and turned her
gaze, as he had, to the street. She was attractive. She was nervous. And she'd been crying.

Scott offered her his beer.

'Thank you, Mr Dreher,' she said, 'but I would prefer Vodka: double and neat.'

Scott took care of the drink order, and then remained facing the counter. The woman didn't turn
to join him until her drink arrived.

'May I see some identification please?' she finally said.

'You already seem to know who I am,' Scott noted.

'No. I only know who was meant to be here.' Her English was good, but with a bar-mix accent of
French, Japanese and, bizarrely, Australian. Or maybe Kiwi - he still had trouble picking the
difference.

Scott shrugged. 'You, however, are not who I was waiting for,' he pointed out, loosening his belt
one notch so he could get his hand inside the front of his jeans. 'Money belt,' he added, catching
her frown, as he retrieved his passport.

She opened his warm and well-worn official ID and compared the photo with the actual face of
Scott Andrew Dreher, born Boston, Massachusetts, 40 years ago.

'You need a shave.'

'That I do,' Scott agreed, scratching his bristly chin. 'I also need a name, and a reason: yours,
both.'

'I am Kaisha. And we should not stay here too long.'

'Really,' Scott said flatly, 'and why is that?'

She glanced, nervously, up and down the street.

No, not nervously, melodramatically
. He smiled, indulging her.
I've seen this movie,
sweetheart!

'The man you were to meet…' Kaisha let her sentence hang, as if still not sure Scott was
kosher.

Or maybe she's not kosher
. Scott cocked his head, waiting for her to name the person he'd
been expecting. After several seconds he realised she was swallowing more than the vodka. She was
choking back emotion. And fairly heavy-duty stuff too, judging by what her right index finger had
done to the drink coaster.

'Okay, I'll bite
. 'Are you all right?'

She shook her head and turned to face him. 'Hiro - he is dead.'

Hiro?
Scott frowned, not understanding. But a shake of his head and 'Who' was all he
managed before his incoming-bad-feeling sense started kicking him like a frigging mule.
Oh
shit
.

'Hiroyuki is dead?' he whispered. 'Hiroyuki Kaga?'

She nodded.

'How? What happened?'

Kaisha's chin was trembling. 'He was murdered. I,' she took a breath, 'I found him.'

'Oh Christ! When?' Several bad thoughts jostled for Scott's attention, making it difficult to
grasp her statement as reality. He'd never met the man, but this was too terrible. The ramifications
were, were…

Fuck, what where they? Was this part of the conspiracy? Or was it unrelated to the Plot?

Kaisha checked her watch. 'About an hour ago,' Her hands were shaking. 'I found him bleeding. I
could do nothing. There was so much blood.'

Scott leant in, close enough to get a scent of jasmine. 'Forgive me Kaisha, but who are you?'

I am,' she wiped her teary eyes with her coat sleeve, 'I
was
his mistress. I couldn't help
him.'

'Did you see who killed him?'

She shrugged. 'Possibly, but after - you know, and before I found him. Hiro said a
gaijin
with no hair and blades killed him.'

A
gaijin with no hair! And blades!
Scott raised an eyebrow.
Okay, now entering serious
B-movie territory
.

'What do you mean by 'after'?' he asked.

'Our room is in the Wild Lotus. Many westerners also have regular girls there. When I returned I
saw maybe three not-much-haired
gaijin
, among the many men departing.'

'Is it your place? Do you live there?' Scott asked.

'No. It is a living-in hotel, but our place is for meeting only. Normally I would not go again
until lunch tomorrow. But today I went back to get my iPod.' She patted the pocket of her
overcoat.

'So you saw a bunch of men leaving the hotel, and then you found Hiroyuki? Um, Kaisha?' Scott
waited until she was looking directly at him. 'Why are you here?'

She looked puzzled. 'Hiro sent me.'

'He sent you?' Scott squinted at her. 'I don't get it. Your lover just died…'