The Delta Chain (22 page)

‘Which could seriously affect both its reputation and funding.’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you contacted this Westmeyer yet?’

‘That’s my next move, once I’ve confirmed with the other numbers on this transmission report that they’ve received the fax.’

Maxwell cupped his chin in his hands, gazing momentarily at the ceiling. ‘I’ll phone this Westmeyer, get his initial comments and get him to agree to speaking with you, on site. It will be in his own best interests to have us on side, to lead the reporting in his favour. You hop a plane to this place…’

‘Northern Rocks.’

‘Right. There’s a reporter there, a Melanie Cail, who’s under consideration for a position with us. She can fill you in on local colour, that sort of thing. But if we’re really going to make this a big story, we need some dirt on why this Institute’s got a saboteur problem.’

‘Looking forward to it,’ Coltrane said with a grin.

Walter knew this was the last time he would venture into the Marrakai flood plains. Even here, before the Adelaide River had reached into that steamy heart of the northern wilderness, the surroundings were charging his memory, filling his mind with images of Greg’s horrific death. For Walter, that landscape – the dense mangroves, water holes and pockets of creek dotting the flat marshes; the humidity; the vibrant wall of bird chatter from distant trees – would forever be a place of nightmares.

One last time. For my friend
…

They had been hiking all day. Walter was impressed by Kate’s stamina and her determination to keep going, but on a few occasions they’d stopped for up to twenty minutes while Kate lay panting, catching breath, gulping down water. Sweat covered her lithe body like a liquid stocking, drenching her hair and matting it to her scalp. But she would not give up, or complain, and Walter saw in her the stubborn tomboy Greg had once described.

Late afternoon. From a vantage point that gave him a long view of the river Walter scanned the horizon with powerful binoculars. Against the sky a flock of birds formed a moving pattern over twisting columns of cloud. There was nothing to suggest even the existence of the human race. And yet it was out here that Walter had witnessed the worst possible example of Man’s inhumanity to Man and the menacing images filled his mind once again.

Westmeyer was seething as he stormed into the boardroom, slamming the door behind him. ‘I’ve just got off the phone to the editor of the Brisbane City Chronicle,’ he said to the gathering of Donnelly, Hunter and Collosimo. ‘His science reporter will be here in the morning and they’re pressing me to meet with him and discuss our information leak. And I’ve got a message to call that damn woman reporter on the local Express.’

At the mention of that, Jackson Donnelly flashed a dark look at Stephen Hunter.

‘What’s this all about, William?’ Hunter asked.

‘It’s about this!’ Westmeyer slapped his copy of the fax down on the shiny mahogany table. ‘I’ve had calls this morning from the CSIRO and the Uni of Sydney, as well as the media. More than twenty major companies or institutions nationally received this yesterday, sent from various public fax machines in Brisbane.’

Hunter picked up the fax, his eyes widening as he recognised the data.

‘Someone is playing industrial saboteur,’ Westmeyer said. ‘Apparently with the simple intention of making us look like damn fools to the outside world.’

Collosimo screwed up his face in total bewilderment. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a thing. Where’s the gain for someone in doing that?’

‘One possibility,’ Westmeyer answered, ‘is that someone from Stephen’s lab has some reason to hold a grudge-’

‘No one in my lab has a grudge,’ Hunter countered, ‘and besides, this could have been done by anyone in the Institute that’s devious enough to access the data. Perhaps this Reardon guy from A.B.C.S. can help us find out how they did it.’

‘We’ve had an odd history with A.B.C.S.,’ Collosimo pointed out. ‘The first freelance consultant from there dies on us, the second has to run off suddenly when her brother dies, we’ve had this ongoing virus that can’t be fixed, now their boss is here troubleshooting just as we get a ridiculous act of sabotage. Maybe we should be taking a good hard look at A.B.C.S.’

‘I’ve known Reardon for years,’ Westmeyer said, ‘and I’ve always found him to be a straight shooter. Besides, we’re
his
clients. He’s nothing to gain from a pathetic act like this.’

‘There is another possibility.’ Jackson Donnelly, silent until now, spoke up from the far end of the table. The others turned to him expectantly. ‘It strikes me this makes a pretty good story for the local media. This reporter that left a message, William, I presume it was Melanie Cail?’

‘Of course it was.’

Donnelly noticed Hunter stiffen at the mention of Melanie’s name.

‘I heard the mayor was being hassled by the very same Ms. Cail, about the local drowning victim, last week. She published an article this morning suggesting a link between that and another case. No wonder the mayor was agitated, with the tourist trade and the upcoming festival at risk of being affected by a media-induced panic.’

‘Where are you headed with this, Jackson?’ Hunter’s question revealed his irritation.

‘Seems she’s one for stirring up juicy stories. Could she be the culprit, creating a sensational news story for herself?’

‘How would this Melanie Cail have access to our data?’ Westmeyer wanted to know.

‘Haven’t I mentioned to you that Stephen has been seeing Ms. Cail socially, that she often stays over at his apartment-’

‘You’re way out of line on this, Jackson,’ Hunter cut in.

‘You take your laptop to and from the lab, don’t you? And you’d have printouts at your apartment?’

‘I’m the senior researcher with this facility, the team leader on Delta, of course I work from home. We’re not nine to fivers -’

‘I’m not suggesting you are.’

‘And my private life, who I see, who I screw, is my business and my business alone-’

‘Not when it conflicts with Institute security!’ Donnelly shouted him down, his contempt obvious.

‘That’s enough from the both of you,’ Westmeyer said, remaining calm. ‘Stephen, I understand this isn’t easy for you, particularly if you have strong feelings for this young woman, but let’s look at this quietly and logically. She’s a journalist, and an ambitious one. Is it possible she’s been able to get hold of this information from your apartment without your knowledge?’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Hunter lied. He’d no sooner answered the question before rearing on Donnelly again, stabbing at the air, voice raised. ‘And what gives you the right, you pervert, to go spying on me in my own time?’

‘Grow up, Stephen. This is an internationally renowned centre with blue chip clients, working on highly sensitive experiments. We don’t have spiky topped steel fences or armed sentries, we’re low-key in that regard because we keep quiet and we’re in quiet surroundings. But Tony and his team keep an eagle eye on everything. As a matter of routine we conduct random watches on all staff, management included, and their associations with others.’

Collosimo squirmed as Hunter glared at him. ‘Tony, you’re in on this?’

‘It’s nothing like you’re imagining,’ Collosimo replied. ‘We conduct occasional, random surveillance on what our staff do, where they go, whom they meet, just to keep abreast of anything out-of-the-ordinary. And to date, all’s been fine.’

Still fuming, Hunter turned to Westmeyer. ‘What the hell, William, this is no way to run a scientific research venture, this is how the C.I. fucking A. go about things…’

‘Don’t overreact, I don’t want you getting upset any further. This isn’t about you, it isn’t personal. We simply need to find out how and why this massive leak occurred. Let me remind everyone, this will be reported overseas, focusing unwanted attention on us and our work here, not to mention sending alarm signals to investors. And the last thing any of us wants is Logan Asquith on the scene, breathing down our necks.’

Hunter’s right forefinger stabbed the air, again in the direction of Donnelly. ‘I don’t like his attitude.’

‘I know you two rub each other the wrong way. But, Stephen, Jackson’s looking out for
all
our interests-’

‘I don’t need you to speak for me, William.’ It was uncharacteristic for Donnelly’s tone to be icy with his employer. They
were
an unlikely duo, Hunter thought, recalling that Kate Kovacs had made that observation during the brief period she and Hunter dated.

‘Perhaps we should all retreat to our corners, simmer down and reconvene later,’ Collosimo suggested.

‘We’ll meet here again at eight sharp tomorrow morning,’ Westmeyer ordered, ‘Jackson, Tony, I want you both to come equipped with suggestions on how we contain the situation and expose our mole, if I may borrow such a term.’ There was no laughter. ‘Stephen, I’d like you to think about whether there’s any way, intentional or otherwise, one of the lab teams could have compromised access to our data.’

Westmeyer was the first to stride out of the boardroom, or the ‘war room’ as it was sometimes called. His anger had subsided but in its place was a deep concern: there would be no way of keeping this from Logan Asquith. He didn’t want Asquith interfering with him again. He was determined to make sure that didn’t happen.

Brian Markham had arranged to meet again with Adam, later that afternoon, in Markham’s office.

‘I’ve given a lot of thought to the issue of that boat’s ownership,’ Markham said. ‘No doubt you’ve done the same?’

‘I have. But tell me your thoughts.’

‘In light of Westmeyer’s ownership of the boat I thought back over your investigation, of that reporter jumping on the bandwagon, and how the mayor called you and Kirby in, obsessing about any news stories.’

‘Yes…’

‘The mayor was instrumental in persuading Westmeyer to choose our town for his institute and has been buddies with him ever since. If Westmeyer’s boat was somehow involved with that drowning, what if Bingham knew? Could he have been the one your anonymous caller overheard talking with Westmeyer?’

‘I had the same thought,’ said Adam.

A knowing smile crossed Markham’s tired features. ‘I wondered whether my little theory was simply outlandish. You’re not reacting as though it is.’

‘If there’s a connection between Westmeyer and the drowning, then there’s no potential link that’s too far fetched. And there’s possibly something else linking Bingham with all this.’

‘Now you really have my attention.’

Adam told Markham about Kate’s intention to obtain copies of the council approved plans for the Institute, the same plans Rhonda Lagan had found suspicious. ‘I don’t know that there’s anything weird about the plans, haven’t seen them, but Bingham would’ve overseen their approval.’

‘True,’ said Markham. ‘In fact, I know that he rushed them through. He saw it as a major coup for the town, getting Westmeyer to choose us for the Institute site.’ He leaned forward intensely. ‘We need to see those design plans.’

‘Kate had already organised to get a copy of those plans.’

‘When is she back from Sydney?’

‘That’s just it. Kate left Sydney two days ago and I haven’t been able to contact her. I don’t know where she is, but I’m beginning to think…’ his eyes met Markham’s, and the coroner saw the growing alarm there, ‘…that she’s up to something.’

‘So what’s next?’

‘Some digging on Westmeyer and Bingham for one thing. I’ve already filled O’Malley in on the anonymous call, the boat’s ownership and the diary entry about the design plans. It’s a task force matter now. O’Malley’s people are compiling a profile on Westmeyer. I’d say we need to organise one on our mayor as well.’

Harold Letterfield scanned his appointments diary. The four ‘o’clock appointment, which he’d absently agreed to at an earlier time, was a puzzling one. An American freelance journalist, Hank Mendelsohn, and an American woman, Jean Farrow, were visiting from Florida. Letterfield’s secretary led them into the office and they settled in the visitor’s chairs as introductions were made.

‘So how long have you been in Australia?’ Letterfield asked.

‘Arrived in Brisbane yesterday and in Settler’s Gorge just a few hours ago,’ Hank said, ‘so if we’re glaring at you with glazed expressions it’s just the jet lag.’

Letterfield smiled. ‘I understand.’

‘We’re tired and I’m sure you’re a busy man so I’ll come straight to the point.’ Hank removed a series of enlarged photographs from an envelope under his arm and placed them on Letterfield’s desk. ‘The boat pictured here, matches the descriptions you’ve been given of a crocodile poachers’ boat on the Adelaide River.’

Letterfield studied the photographs. ‘Where did you get these, Mr. Mendelsohn?’ He was intrigued but remained cautious.

‘Please, the name’s Hank. These photos were taken by Jean’s late son, Kevin Farrow. He was flying over the Florida Everglades, investigating similar sightings to the ones you’ve had here. I’m afraid Kevin was killed by these hunters in the same fashion your ranger, Greg Kovacs, died. There’s no doubt in my mind this is the same gang. They were operating in the Everglades around two years ago. Media coverage and the intensive search for them, seems to have forced them underground. I believe they laid low for a while, then regrouped and restarted their operation here. I might add this region would suit them much better – it’s more remote, and heavily populated by the reptiles they’re after.’

Letterfield was astounded. ‘Good God…Florida?’ The photographs remained gripped in his fingers as though he was too mesmerised to let go. ‘You’ve clearly put in a great deal of time and effort on this, Hank. What do you make of it?’

‘There’s a huge market for croc skins on the international black market. A gang like this is not totally unusual. But these certainly aren’t your garden-variety reptile hunters. They have a state-of-the-art river craft, with sophisticated gear, not just for avoiding detection, but also for tracking the reptiles.