The Industry (11 page)

The bartender plunged behind the counter with a loud bellow of terror. The woman in the cream and gold pashmina dived off her chair and scrambled under her table, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open to reveal numerous black fillings.

The three men took cover behind the bar counter, resulting in another dismayed yell from the hiding bartender, who seemed to take it upon himself to aid in the battle and started throwing full bottles of wine in their direction.

Mai took her chance while the attackers were out of sight, grabbing Kirra's arm and hoisting her into a crouching position.

‘We have to go!' she urged, readying them both for a dash to the door. Kirra gulped down a breath and stole a glance at the counter.

‘Move, now!' Mai hissed.

She jumped to her feet and took off, dragging Kirra with her, dodging between upturned chairs as they went.

Another shot rang out; this time it reached its target. Mai gave a nauseating yelp and Kirra was horrified to see blood gushing from a gaping hole in her sleeve.

Mai stumbled to the ground next to one of the booths, out of the line of fire. She pulled Kirra down with her, then used her uninjured right arm to drag herself closer to the door.

Desmond was firing furiously and one of the men collapsed behind the counter, spattering it with blood. Mai transferred her gun to her right hand, her left dangling by her side, blood streaming freely between her fingers.

Suddenly, Desmond seized Kirra's wrist and hauled her to her feet. ‘Run!' he barked, urging her towards the door.

They crossed the distance in what seemed like hours instead of seconds. Together they tore out into the
night, the bar's front windows bursting into smithereens as bullets chased them. As they surged forward, Kirra looked over her shoulder to see Mai slumped and bleeding between the tables and stools. She was shooting furiously at the attackers' hiding place. Bottles of wine and spirits exploded along the bar and shelf behind it, as though Mai was trying her luck at some sort of carnival game, but Kirra couldn't see whether she'd hit her targets.

Out in the street, Kirra expected to hear the blare of incoming police sirens, yet apart from the sounds of shooting, which steadily faded as they ran, the night was eerily peaceful.

They reached the complex in minutes, Desmond ascending the stairs with great powerful strides and shoving through the door into the apartment. Kirra stumbled in behind him and groped for the kitchen bench for support.

‘Shit,' Desmond snarled, scanning the room as though more assailants might pop out at any moment and start firing at them. ‘Shit!'

Kirra stared at him. In light of what had just happened, ‘shit' seemed like a monstrous understatement.

‘You left her. You left Mai behind,' she whispered.

The room was dark, the only light coming from the streetlights outside, which meant Kirra could only just make out the uneasy expression on Desmond's face. He cursed under his breath once more and strode into another room. She watched him go, transfixed. It was as though he couldn't hear her. He returned with two backpacks, and zipped one up on the kitchen island. His hands were quite steady. Kirra could barely believe what she was seeing.

‘Are you listening to me?' she bellowed, her voice high and unfamiliar. ‘You just left her there! She got hit! Why …
why
did you do that?'

‘No questions,' Desmond mumbled, rummaging through the other bag.

Kirra stood frozen next to the kitchen bench, tears snaking down her cheeks. She didn't know Mai well, and certainly didn't feel close to her, but she couldn't fathom Desmond's apparent ease at leaving her behind in such danger. Didn't he realise she was as good as dead?

‘Desmond!' Kirra persisted. She grabbed his hand. ‘HOW could you do that? Mai could be dead! Desmond! You just
left
her!'

‘Kirra!' he yelled, whipping around and grasping her arms. He gave her a slight shake. ‘Stop!'

Stunned at his outburst, she fell silent, her hysteria ebbing slowly. Desmond shook his head as he released her.

‘She'll be alright,' he said softly, returning to rummage through the backpack, checking the items inside.

‘But …' Kirra murmured weakly.

‘I had to leave her,' he said. ‘There was an opportunity to get you away and I had to take it. Those men were going to kill us both and take you away.'

‘Did Latham send them?' Kirra asked after a moment.

‘I don't know,' Desmond said. ‘I think so, but I can't be sure. If they weren't under Latham's employ, it means he's done exactly what we feared. He's released your identity, your previous location, everything, hoping that some other Contractor will track you down for him.'

Kirra felt like she needed to sit down.

‘They're coming after me?' she asked in a tiny whisper. ‘All of them?'

‘We have to get moving. They know our area,' Desmond answered softly, unable to tell her what she wanted to hear.

‘But … Mai …'

Desmond handed her a backpack and slung the other one over his shoulder.

‘She'll be alright. You'll see,' he said. Kirra wasn't convinced, and, judging by the look on his face, neither was he.

Desmond scanned the street several times before allowing Kirra out of the shadows of the complex and into the balmy night air.

‘Walk slowly,' he instructed.

Kirra frowned. She'd have expected him to say the opposite. After giving the street another check she slowed her pace. Desmond, who looked around once he realised he was striding ahead, gave her a beleaguered look.

‘Not
that
slowly,' he said. He took her elbow. ‘That looks ridiculous. You
will
draw attention to yourself that way. Just be calm. Be natural. Look as though you've never done a thing wrong in your life and walk with me.'

Kirra fell into step at his elbow, feeling stupid. He rounded a corner, unlocked the dark green sedan parked there, and bundled Kirra into the passenger seat. He perused the street once more, seemed to decide the coast was clear, and climbed into the driver's seat.

Desmond drove back towards the bar and halted the car a block away from the police tape now strung up around the area. Kirra could hear people shouting orders, and the odd siren still rang out. Broken glass and bits of furniture lined the footpath outside the bar, where police were treading carefully, taking notes. A crowd of excited onlookers had formed, and she peered past them to see an ambulance with a covered body on a stretcher inside it. She shuddered. Mai was amongst all that, and Kirra had no idea whether she was living or dead. She could have been the body on the stretcher for all Kirra knew.

She looked at Desmond from the corner of her eye. His brow was lined, his eyes weary and worried. He seemed calmed by the presence of police though. After a moment they drove away, Desmond maintaining a tight grip on the steering wheel and Kirra took this as a sign not to ask where they were going. They entered what she guessed was the business district of Madrid, with skyscrapers and office buildings standing like sleeping giants amongst the stars. She glimpsed the occasional street sign at junctions but gave up trying to glean any information from them. Desmond didn't seem to pay attention to the signs at all. He seemed to know precisely where he was going.

He finally turned into a car park beneath a towering glass building. All the levels of the car park were vacant, except for the very last. Getting out, Kirra looked around at the hundreds of cars lined up in neat rows. Mystified, she followed Desmond into the elevator and watched, thoroughly confused, as he hit a small black button marked U4.

‘U?' she asked. ‘Underground?'

‘What else would U stand for?'

Desmond didn't look at her as the doors closed, folding his arms as they descended even deeper into the ground.

The elevator eventually gave a sharp
ping
and the doors slid open with surprising speed. Kirra leaned forward, looking out into what seemed to be an ordinary reception area with rough brick walls and thick crimson carpet. Lamps with polished brass stands gave the room a welcoming glow, and two healthy potted kentia palms flanked the elevator.

Kirra followed Desmond towards a woman sitting behind a regal-looking desk. The woman was somewhere in her early thirties, attractive and gave the distinct impression of finetuned competency. Her shiny reddish-brown hair almost blended into the brick wall behind her. She glanced up from the spotless surface of her desk and laid the shiny fountain pen she'd been using perfectly parallel with her writing pad. Her computer cast a soft, rosy blush across her fair features as she watched them politely. On the wall behind her was a sign that read:

 

Lajos Gerencia SA

Lajos Management Ltd

 

‘Good evening,' she said, her words rounded and rich. ‘How may I assist you?'

Desmond narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘How did you know we weren't Spanish?' he asked.

The receptionist blinked. Kirra could have sworn she saw a flicker of alarm cross her face, yet it was so fleeting she wondered if she'd imagined it.

‘I'm sorry, sir?' the woman said, looking genuinely confused.

‘Never mind,' Desmond said, with a slight shake of his head. ‘I need to speak with Marron Davis.'

The receptionist's expression didn't change whatsoever this time.

‘My apologies, sir, but there is no one named Marron Davis in this particular office,' she told him, her voice like an automated recording. ‘I am truly sorry for the inconvenience.'

Desmond gave her a strange look before leaning over the desk.

‘I know you have to say that,' he said. ‘And I know there's no appointment registered, but there's been an emergency. Kindly give Marron a call and tell him Des needs a quick word.'

The receptionist's eyes widened a fraction. Kirra noticed it only because she'd been searching for another break in the woman's composure — anything to indicate that she was real and not some highly convincing robot. The woman's gaze flicked over Desmond and, despite her frozen face, Kirra could tell she was weighing up her options.

‘Very well, sir,' she consented finally, lifting her phone gracefully, her perfectly manicured fingers poised delicately on the receiver. She dialled a number and waited, her lips pursed. ‘Yes, please put Mr Davis on the line,' she requested, her eyes never leaving Desmond.

Kirra rocked on her feet slightly, looking around as they waited. To the left of the receptionist was a set of intricately carved double doors, a security pad on the
wall next to them. To the woman's right hung a thickly framed abstract painting featuring the exact same crimson as the carpet. Kirra chewed her lip. Everything about this place seemed purposeful, as though someone had gone to great lengths to create a welcoming but somehow always slightly distant atmosphere.

‘Mr Davis?' The receptionist's voice startled Kirra. She'd been silent for some time. ‘Yes, sir. I have a Mr … er … Des for you, sir.'

Mr Davis must have said something quite monumental, because the receptionist suddenly dropped her facade.

‘Oh, really?' she said, a winsome smile playing at her lips. ‘I'll tell him. See you later, Marron.'

Dropping the phone back on the hook, she looked up at Desmond. ‘Desmond Rall?' she asked, her eyes ablaze with something very close to adulation. ‘
The
Desmond Rall? I thought this day would never come.'

Desmond seemed stunned for a moment.

‘Are you Nicolette Portier?' he said.

‘Oh, please,' she returned, sounding delighted. ‘It's Lettie. Sorry about all that. After all the times we've spoken on the phone I should have recognised your voice. Just wait 'til I tell the girls downstairs that Desmond Rall himself came to the MIO!'

Kirra raised an eyebrow, and gave Desmond a quick sideways glance. He looked quite uncomfortable.

‘We've had a bit of a problem, Lettie,' he said, guiding her gently back to the serious task at hand. ‘We really do need to see Marron.'

‘But of course,' she trilled happily, rising from her chair and sauntering over to the double doors. She
typed the security PIN into the pad. Kirra couldn't help wondering if it was a Spencer System.

‘I'll take you down myself,' Lettie said, pulling open one of the heavy doors and ushering them through. She closed it carefully behind them and took them down a short corridor, past another set of doors and around a corner.

To Kirra's astonishment they emerged onto a balcony overlooking a buzzing open-plan office the size of a stadium. It was totally devoid of windows, which made perfect sense as they were several floors below ground. The walls were the same red brick as the reception area, the light was as warm and inviting, the carpet was the same plush crimson. Hanging from the walls were enormous screens displaying satellite images of Madrid, street maps and what looked like surveillance feeds of the inside of buildings. Smaller screens showed what looked like photos of crime and accident scenes. Kirra could have sworn she spotted the shattered windows of the Ruiz bar on one of the screens before it flicked away to show a platform at a train station.

There were people — so many people — scurrying about the office, having hurried conversations, delivering files and forms to each other. She was reminded of an ants' nest she'd once found by Oscar's kennel in their backyard: hundreds of the little insects scurrying around, bumping into each other, changing directions, carrying tiny parcels as they went. Gazing down at the office activity, Kirra swallowed a hard, anxious lump in her throat. She didn't feel well all of a sudden. Half a year cooped up with only one other person for company had had more of an effect
on her than she'd realised. The crowd below felt intensely threatening.

Lettie set off down a flight of stairs into the bullpen, Kirra all the while resisting the urge to ask Desmond if she couldn't just wait quietly in the reception area.

As they weaved their way through the masses, Kirra caught snippets of conversations. An old woman was scurrying alongside a man with greying hair, both of them clutching stacks of stapled files.

‘… they're expecting me to drop what I've been doing for decades and work with an entirely new system!' the old woman complained. ‘Well, I told them where to go. Long live hard-copy filing!'

‘Ramona, we've been using computerised files for the last ten years,' the man said gently, ‘and we're still having problems with the amount of paper coming in and out of this office. If you would just switch over, then we could empty the files out of the office next to yours and give it to someone who really needs it. We're all working towards a paper-free office. You know, it's about being environmentally minded —'

‘Tell it to someone who cares,' Ramona grumbled. ‘I'll transfer to the PIO if it comes to that. They're still doing things the good old-fashioned way!'

‘That's because the PIO is intent on destroying the planet!' the man retorted.

Lettie steered them to the left and Kirra was pulled away from the conversation. She tuned in to a pair of young men who were exchanging stacks of folders.

‘This one's everything we have on the RedCons in Madrid,' one said, his Spanish accent delicate and
pleasant to listen to. ‘And these are on the Winthrop Agency and their movements in the last six months.'

‘Why so many?' asked the other man, taking the numerous folders and piling them in his arms.

‘The Winthrop lot have been on the move since February,' the first man said. ‘From what I can gather they're looking for something.'

Kirra realised Lettie and Desmond were striding ahead and she hurried to keep up. Lettie finally came to a stop at a private office.

‘Here he is,' she said with a smile. ‘I'll see you when you're finished.'

She rapped on the door, spun around and walked away, negotiating a path through the organised chaos with apparent ease. Kirra watched her stop to whisper something to two women loitering by a square cubicle. All three of them looked over at Desmond and giggled. Lettie sashayed on with a very purposeful swing to her hips, but Desmond took little notice. He raised his hand to rap on the door once more. Almost instantly, it was yanked open.

‘Desmond! What the hell happened?'

Marron Davis was older than Desmond, although he looked just as unkempt and tired. His skin was such a deep shade of brown Kirra could barely distinguish the several days worth of stubble that coated his jawline. His hair was cropped close to his scalp, his face streaked with worry lines, and his grey suit was crumpled.

His eyes, huge and dark, flickered over Kirra briefly as he ushered them into his highly disorganised office. Desmond took a seat and Kirra followed suit, watching as
Marron sank into a plush, high-backed chair on the other side of the desk, his hand shooting out to stabilise a pile of files that wobbled precariously on the bookshelf beside him.

When Desmond failed to launch into an immediate explanation Marron gave him an impatient look. ‘Well?' he prodded. ‘What is it?'

Kirra felt her jaw drop. This man, this Marron Davis, was Australian! She heard it in his voice. She immediately wished Desmond wasn't there so she could ask him her own set of questions. Perhaps Marron knew about her situation? Perhaps he could help her? Perhaps he had a special phone number to call, and within hours Kirra would be surrounded by Australian officials who knew how to deal with people like Latham.

‘Are you Australian?' she blurted out.

Marron looked at her and frowned, his face wrinkling like a prune.

‘Why?' he asked, his hands frozen upon the armrests of his chair.

‘You are, aren't you?' Kirra said.

Marron glanced from Kirra to Desmond and back again. ‘In a manner of speaking …' he said slowly.

‘Do you know anything about Kirra Hayward?' she asked.

Marron's frown deepened. ‘Kirra Hayward? Why?'

Desmond gave a small whimper of distress. Marron noticed it.

‘Why?' he repeated, this time addressing Desmond.

‘You're not going to like this, Marron,' Desmond mumbled.

‘What?' Marron said, his voice rising, his dark eyes darting suspiciously between them. ‘What are you talking about?'

Desmond sighed. ‘This
is
Kirra Hayward.'

‘Jesus Christ!' Marron breathed, his face terrified. ‘Get her out of here. Now!'