Stark (29 page)

139: TURNING TO CRIME

C
hrissy was let out of the Customs office without a stain on her character which was more than could be said for her togs, as Wanda would have called them. She had now been on the run, in abject terror, for about forty hours and was getting a bit whiffy. But she was still alive and what’s more, she was not required to go back the way she had come and go out through the green channel. As she was unceremoniously ejected through a small door about a hundred metres along the terminal floor, she allowed herself a quick glance towards the arrivals point…Sure enough, there was a large, impatient looking man in an anorak, despite the heat, standing forlornly hoping that he would be able to kill someone off the next flight.

She took a taxi to Perth Internal terminal. Australia being such a huge place, most internal flights are still transcontinental, and hence they get their own airport. Chrissy walked as calmly as she could up to the Southern Cross Airline desk and inquired after the ticket to Bullens Creek that she had reserved for a friend under the name of Robbins.

‘Why certainly, I’ll just see if I can help you in that way, my name is Charlene and I’ll be pleased to offer any assistance, thank you for choosing Southern Cross as your internal carrier.’ Charlene was an Australian girl, but the American communication disease is infectious.

‘Why yes, here is the ticket, now if I can just take a credit card imprint.’ Chrissy handed over her card.

But, during Chrissy’s long flight, some unseen hand had been at work and Charlene was embarrassed to have to inform Chrissy that the computer had blocked her card. What’s more, Charlene regretted to have to inform Chrissy that she had been requested to inform American Diners of the time and location of the attempted transaction…

Chrissy mumbled that it was the third time this week and she had been assured that the mix-up had been dealt with and disappeared into the crowd. Chrissy had to think quickly, which in a way was lucky because had she had more time to ponder, she would surely have despaired at the hopelessness of her position. She was being hounded by the most powerful people in the world; people who knew, and controlled, everything.

Supposing she did get to Bullens Creek? And what if the secret did lie there? What would she do? She was going to be killed very shortly anyway, there was not a lot of point in running.

However, Chrissy had made a plan, a plan to get to Bullens Creek and for want of anything better to do, she determined to stick to it. And so, imbued with the fatalism of somebody who basically considers herself as good as dead, she decided to steal somebody’s wallet.

This decision required a lot of courage. Because, even in her perilous position, the thought of being caught as a common thief and marched away in shame through a crowd of embarrassed people still held a real dread for her.

But, in fact, that scenario was an unlikely one because Chrissy came up with a brilliant idea. This was partly because fear lends wings to the imagination, and partly because the lack of individualism which the modern world of global finance imposes on us is not confined to the horrors of Slampacker burgers. The rich are equally susceptible to being told who they are.

140: BADGE OF RANK

C
hrissy’s plan formed the moment she saw the contents of the rich lady’s bag, carelessly placed on the floor beside her as she sat reading the sort of novel that would never have been invented if it wasn’t for the Wright Brothers. Inside the bag was a Cartige card wallet. There could be no mistake about that, the distinctive dyed grey crocodile skin with pink edges, the gold-plated corner strengtheners. This was the Cartige logo and identity, jealously protected in courts across the world.

Why this jealousy? The reason is that the wallet was no more attractive than a wallet costing a tenth as much, this is why the distinctive livery is so important. That livery, protected in court from imitation, guarantees that anything carrying it costs a hell of a lot.

These identification uniform ‘accessories’ are literally nothing more than a personal advert proclaiming one’s wealth. A small key-ring, or bill clip carrying the logo of a perfume company, can cost easily two hundred pounds. There seems to be no reason for this inflation, other than that it represents an international visual snob code. It would be cheaper, and no less ostentatious, to simply stamp one’s income on one’s forehead. At least that had been the gist of Chrissy’s thoughts the previous Christmas, when Farty Frank, a commodity broker of her acquaintance, had given her a Cartige card wallet in the obvious hope that she would be impressed.

‘It’s genuine Cartige, you know,’ he had said; meaning that whatever its genuine aesthetic value and whatever its genuine practical value, it certainly genuinely cost a lot.

Chrissy did not really like carrying a financial badge of rank but it was certainly a very nice looking wallet, worth at least thirty of the three hundred bucks it had cost, and so, despite brushing off Farty Frank pretty sharpish, she had carried her cards in the Cartige wallet ever since. In honour of his memory, Farty Frank got a starring role in the scheme that his gift made possible.

141: THE HIT

F
rank!!’ Chrissy shouted, ‘Frank, Frank, I’m here,’ she scuttled across the terminal as the five Franks in the crowded room turned their heads. Chrissy pushed her way through the people, making as much noise as she possibly could. ‘Wait, Wait, I’m here!!!’

This time the carefully pre-opened bag was required, and worked perfectly. It was almost empty, but what contents there were scattered over and into the rich lady’s gaping bag. Chrissy played it half-apologetic, half furious. After all the mythical Frank was disappearing and the lady’s bag had been in a gangway.

She had to get down first and, as deftly as she could, whipped the lady’s wallet, overcoming a momentary paranoia that she was in fact stealing back her own one. Obviously and instantly the rich lady’s suspicions were aroused.

‘Hey, get your hands out of my bag will ya!’

Chrissy instantly backed off.

‘OK, OK, sorry, but I’m in the process of missing my fiance in from Detroit. It’s just the lipstick, the gold compact and the address book…‘ The rich lady had now assured herself that a Cartige wallet was still in her bag and happily handed over the other items, pleased to meet another American.

‘The men you gotta chase are the only ones worth having, dear, go for it.’

Chrissy thanked her and rushed off with a surge of confidence. Not only had she effected rather a neat lift, but also she had covered herself. If the lady discovered the switch, Chrissy could, of course, claim that it had been a genuine mix-up, and take back her own cards with feigned relief. Her only chance of discovery would be if she was caught using the cards and she intended to get that obstacle out of the way immediately.

Watching the rich woman carefully from across the terminal, Chrissy allowed herself only five practises at the signature on the back of the American Diners card. Luckily it was an erratic scrawl which Chrissy, being a journalist, had no trouble at all in emulating.

No more than three minutes after the theft, Chrissy presented herself back at the Southern Cross desk, being careful to choose a different queue to the one Charlene stood at the front of.

Having paid for the ticket, Chrissy returned to the rich woman and explained the mix-up. Not only was Chrissy an honest person who did not wish upon anyone the hassle of having to cancel all their cards, but also she did not need the police after her as well. Obviously the ticket to Bullens would eventually show up on the rich woman’s statement but she did not look like the sort of person who kept their transparents and checked them off each month. On her first shot Chrissy had committed the perfect crime.

The rich lady laughed at the confusion.

‘Well now, these darn Cart-ee-jay things are meant to be so exclusive and here they are falling over each other. Thank you, dear.’

Chrissy was about to leave.

‘By the way, did you catch Frank?’

‘Frank?’

‘That’s right, dear,’ the lady laughed, ‘love ‘em and forget ‘em. I have three times.’

142: LUCK RUNNING OUT

T
he flight left forty minutes later and Chrissy got on it without mishap. She ordered a beer and tried to collect her thoughts.

She had to presume that despite having slipped past the thug at customs, her adversaries must now know that she was in Australia because Charlene would have reported her trying to use her credit card. On the other hand, she had actually bought her ticket to Bullens Creek with a different card, so with any luck they would take a while to find out where she had gone to after leaving Charlene.

This time though, luck was against her. The poor stooge who had so unsuccessfully staked out the international arrivals had rushed straight over to internal the moment he got the word and was now interviewing Charlene.

‘She wanted to pick up a ticket to Bullens Creek, but of course I wouldn’t give it to her. If my computer says ‘hold’ I hold.’

Having learnt that a plane for Bullens had just left and that yes, a woman closely resembling his sister had been on it, the stooge rang his boss. That boss then rang his boss, and very quickly the message reached Durf’s inner team.

Durf’s inner team nearly shat themselves. How on earth could this woman, Christine Kelly, have worked it out! She was going to Bullens Creek, the very epicentre of everything. It was shocking how close they had come to a total breach of security. One thing was certain, this time Chrissy was going to be met at the airport.

143: AIRPORT RESCUE

144: RECEPTION COMMITTEE

The incoming Southern Cross flight from Perth was going to be a little late and so Zimmerman had nothing to do but hang out in the sweaty, humid, horrible arrivals shed until his comics arrived.

Bullens Creek strip had changed beyond recognition since the day that Sly had first flown in and given his speech. The old arrivals and departures hut was now just a store room. To replace it, a large pre-fabricated building had been thrown up and beside it, a car park full of ex-military air traffic control equipment. This sleepy little place that had once received two flights a day, was now taking eight an hour — almost all freight — and that number was scheduled to double within a month. They had extended the original runway and were building three more much larger ones. Being in the middle of the desert there was no space problem, and already Bullens Creek airport was beginning to resemble a thriving little metropolis all of its own. None the less, despite the crowds and the hustle and bustle in the huge shed, Zimmerman spotted the four men in sports jackets immediately. ‘Pigs or gooks,’ he thought to himself without much interest.

It was the overplayed casualness of the unpleasant looking little group that was so transparent to Zimmerman. No collection of people who are all waiting for the same thing are capable of holding a natural conversation. Even if the thing they are waiting for is only a taxi. No matter how communicative an evening has been, no matter how smoothly the conversation has flowed, once both parties know that there could be a taxi at the door any minute, the conversation inevitably becomes stilted. And it is the same when you are waiting for women you have been told to take alive at all costs. Of course, Zimmerman did not know that that was what they were waiting for, but he knew they were waiting for something, and he presumed that whatever it was they were up to no good.

However, Zimmerman decided to ignore them. After all, he and his companions were onto something very big and the last thing he wanted to do was start drawing attention to himself. The men were probably waiting for an atom bomb or something to take behind the wire; but there was nothing that Zimmerman could do about it for the time being. Anyway, Zimmerman decided, if he was going to get shot at some point, which he reckoned was a pretty fair bet, he wanted to have a read of what happened to the Phantom and Judge Dread first.

To die with an easy mind is one thing; to die in the knowledge that the Phantom is still bound to the croc’ with live snakes and the Judge appears to have inexplicably turned his back upon justice and made a pact with evil, is another.

145: FORSAKEN

A
s with all flights, when the Perth plane came in, the people got off first. Zimmerman knew that it would be at least ten minutes before the baggage and freight would be taken off and that he would have to wait. He was interested to see that the four men stirred restlessly though. So, it was a person they were waiting for, Zimm deduced. Reception committee or execution squad? Zimm guessed, by the look of them and the bulges in their shoulders, that someone was in for a nasty touch-down.

People began to flow through the arrivals door. The thugs soon spotted their quarry, they moved as one man. The quarry, a woman, spotted them a moment later. There was clearly nothing that she could do. Zimm watched her, his blood quickening. She had a nice face but it was dull with terror. She seemed to be visibly sagging with exhaustion and the desperation of her condition. For Zimm, whose regular prescriptions from Doctor Goodtime had got him into the habit of visualizing things that were not there, she seemed to be disintegrating before his very eyes. It was as if her will to live was physically dripping out of her and collecting in a puddle at her feet.

Zimm felt absolutely awful. He had been a cornered animal himself and he knew that facing a gang of murderous foes, by whom you were totally outnumbered, was absolutely horrid. As the four goons surrounded her, Zimm knew that the Phantom would not have hesitated. He knew that the Phantom would, regardless of personal risk and the natural reluctance one feels to making a scene in a crowded airport, have done something. Dodging bullets and armed only with a luggage trolley and stand-up ashtray the Phantom would have sorted it out. Even the fact that he was at present in Central Africa tied to a croc’ with live snakes would not have stopped him saving that girl. Zimmerman longed to get stuck in.

It was not fear that held him back — although taking on four armed thugs was fairly high on Zimmerman’s list of things he didn’t like doing — it was the wider situation. This new, together, danger tackling Zimmerman could see that he was involved in something potentially much bigger than the fate of just one person, no matter how nice a face she had. He mustn’t compromise his Eco-mission…None of the others would get over the wire without him, and he would be no good dead, or in jail.

Oh well, he would have to leave the poor girl to her fate. Zimmerman knew that his treasured super-hero comics were going to make hollow reading after he had failed to save a damsel in distress.