Читать книгу The Big Smoke - Jason Nahrung - Страница 16

Felicity was gone when a telephone call woke Reece an hour before dawn. He showered and shaved and, feeling only slightly rumpled in his stiff black GS uniform, made his way through Thorn. He wasn't convinced what had happened between he and Felicity was anything other than stress relief, but he had no regrets.

Forty years he'd been in Maximilian's employ, a rare beast indeed: brought in by Mira, installed from the start as a Hunter and her personal favourite. It had made him unpopular with pretty much everyone. With Mira off the board, chickens were coming home to roost. It was only the tacit agreement not to admit that Mira would not be coming back from her bedlam that forestalled more serious repercussions for Reece. The Old Man had not accepted his daughter was lost; her favourite could not be too seriously impugned.

But he could be demoted, to the Gespenstenstaffel — an elite unit of mostly vampires and red-eyes under Heinrich's command.

So the pre-dawn phone call was a strange one. Marshall Jane Smith, in charge of Thorn's far more mundane security concerns, wanted to see him. Down he went to her office on the second floor, at the opposite end of the building to Mira's sequestered chambers, never the twain to meet: access to the Strigoi's section was strictly limited, red lift only, and a pass-controlled set of fire stairs.

Had the special treatment for the Strigoi rankled? Oh yes. Had the Strigoi cared? Not one jot. Was Reece expecting to have his nose rubbed in her fall, and his? Most definitely.

A man in the crisp, olive-coloured uniform of Marshall's VSS — Von Schiller Security, guardians of all Maximilian's facilities — looked up from his computer screen as Reece entered the reception. The man's eyes flashed the tell-tale crimson of a red-eye.

'You took your time,' Marshall's Familiare told him, his voice as sharp as the sword-shaped letter opener on his desk. In fairness, they had told him to report ASAP, which to his mind allowed for a shave and a quick wake-up coffee and a smoke.

'Got lost,' Reece said. It'd been meant to be a thinly-veiled insult about being on their floor, but there was a deeper truth to the statement that made him blanch. Suddenly, he was too tired to trade insults with the officious red-eye. 'I can come back if she's busy.'

The man sniffed and pressed an intercom to announce Reece's belated arrival. Then he stood and opened the door, closing it behind Reece with a soft click, surprisingly similar to a weapon being cocked.

Windowless, the room had all the charm of a cell, the air conditioning set to chilly, the décor to cheap motel. Filing cabinets, bar fridge, microwave, several changes of clothes for different occasions hanging in plastic from a naked rack. Two computer screens. A muted wall-mounted television set to a 24-hour news channel, a transistor radio whispering to itself. The room stank of cigarettes. Homely, Reece thought.

Marshall Jane Smith stood as he entered; walked around to shake his hand with a firm grip, then indicated a chair before returning to her desk and clicking off the radio.

Marshall, as she was known, was about his height, stocky, toned, hair trimmed to a low-maintenance bob. She clearly hadn't given up the good things in life. Some did, gradually letting the blood take over, and ended up looking like a walking advertisement for anorexia, hunger on legs. Marshall wasn't that much older than Reece, in unnatural terms, and still retained curves and complexion.

She flicked open a cigarette packet and offered him one, which he accepted though he found tailor-mades unpleasant in both taste and smell. She lit it for him, then one for herself. An ashtray in the shape of Australia sat brim-full on the desk, the acronym ASIO carved in the lip.

Marshall blew smoke at the ceiling — there was an exhaust fan there, he could hear the quiet whirr, a subtle reminder that power came with privileges.

'Busted, eh, Lieutenant Reece.'

'How so, Madam Marshall?'

'Please, just Marshall. This is an informal chat.'

He sighed blue breath, not having had enough sleep for jousting, and waited. He was due to be at some bullshit orientation program soon, but she'd know that, putting him under subtle pressure. Maybe he shouldn't have had the coffee after all.

'Takes a while to get used to uniform again, doesn't it?'

He nodded. She was in a suit jacket and white blouse, the top button undone; he'd noted the blue jeans, tight around the thighs, and RM Williams boots.

'This gunfight at the tattoo parlour in the Valley. How concerned should I be?'

'That would depend on how long Kevin Matheson stays at large.'

'Explain.'

'Matheson wants to take out Mira. He's looking for access.'

'Access.' Marshall tapped ash. 'The late Jack Flash was a known associate of the villein known as the Needle, was he not?'

'That is an avenue of—'

'That bloody spook. Got his fingers in more pies than we do. Could he get the assassin in?'

'The question is, would he want to?'

She was quiet then, just the sound of them drawing in breath and exhaling smoke, and the exhaust fan. If she was feeling the weight of the new day breaking outside, she gave no sign.

Reece leaned forward to ash his cigarette. He noticed a folder on her desk, the heading, and caught her eye.

'Fronds: the new casino at Coolum,' she confirmed. 'We're handling security, naturally.'

'I liked Coolum, back in the day. Quiet.'

'It won't be once this gets going.' She indicated the folder with her cigarette. 'The council's already jockeying to see who claims grazing rights.'

By council she meant Maximilian's board of department heads and favoured vassals, each doing their bit to ensure his empire ran smoothly. The actual municipal council would've had little say in the matter, once Maximilian had made up his mind about the development. Money talks, especially when backed up by the promise of immortality and the more mundane threats of early death and financial ruin. Big business, immortal style; gave the futures market a whole new meaning.

'I'm surprised anyone would want to leave Brisbane.'

'Come on, Reece. An hour out of town, away from the Old Man's gaze, and all those hopeless, desperate losers chasing a promise that's unlikely to ever happen. Throw in backpackers and holidaymakers and the entire Sunshine Coast to nibble on; it's a bloody smorgasbord.'

He gave a nod, conceding, as she analysed him, green-eyed, through the smoke. 'The Old Man does like his casinos. Casinos and brothels.' Both gave perfect exposure to powerful men with secrets to keep, as well as losers no one would miss should they get an offer they couldn't refuse. 'Who's the frontrunner?'

'The Toffs, maybe. Campbell thinks it'll shore up their support. Give us a few more inroads into the finance world.'

'You don't want it?'

'And give up all this?' She slipped the folder into a drawer and locked it. 'You ever think maybe Danica was right?'

'How's that?'

'We don't belong anymore. We shouldn't even try; just slip away, under the surface.'

'Could you do that?'

She dug out a folder from a tray and passed it to him. 'What do you know about this chap?'

He flicked through the papers, paused at a head-and-shoulders shot of a young man in a VSS uniform. 'I heard about it. Briggs, private, one of yours. Head cut off, hands and feet removed.'

'ID'd by DNA. Found among what's left of the mangroves under the expressway. Crabs had taken a nibble; fish too, maybe.'

'Just before the Debacle,' Reece said, noting the estimated day of death.

'Check the picture of his back. What does that suggest to you?'

He dug through the glossies until he found the photo: the mottled, pale skin, an ulcer-type wound on the right shoulder blade. He held it up to the light. 'A patch of skin taken off? A tattoo?'

'Tell me again about your interest in the Needle.'

He paused, studied the image. Couldn't fault her intelligence gathering. Couldn't see any point denying what she already knew. 'You think Briggs leaked the information about Jasmine Turner setting up shop out west to the Needle. Then was silenced by whoever told him in the first place, because no way could a VSS private know about it off his own bat.'

'Leaving me with the shit sandwich.'

Reece sat up straight, handed back the file, ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. The room had become quite cold. 'Why are you showing me this, Madam Marshall?'

'He should've watched his back.' A tight grimace at her word play. 'I think there's something in that for all of us. You'd better run along, Reece. You don't want to be late for your reorientation.'

He got as far as the door when she said, 'And perhaps it might be best if you keep me in the loop on this Matheson case. I'd like to know I've got a wolf at my door before he eats the baby.'