Martin stands, not waiting for his coffee or his panini. ‘I’m going for a walk. I’ll see you later.’ His voice is even, reasonable. Benign. It sends a shiver through her.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To check on the apartment. See if I can organise a clean-up. I can’t leave it sitting there with the door off its hinges.’ He looks at her for a long moment. She can feel his eyes upon her, as if judging her, before he speaks again. ‘And I need to talk to Wellington Smith. Like I told you last night.’
And then she’s alone with her self-recriminations. Over behind the espresso machine, Aldo is averting his eyes, no longer smiling. God, is it that obvious?
She drinks her coffee, waits for Martin, but he doesn’t return. She waits five minutes more, then pays and leaves. When she gets back to Ichiban he’s already there, discussing some sort of website, Yev staring at a business card. The computer whizz doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong between them, handing over her phone. ‘Good to go. Can you set it up, please? Passwords, fingerprint recognition, facial recognition, all that stuff.’ She looks across at Martin, but he’s concentrating on his own phone. So she does what she’s told, setting up her handset. Unlike Martin, she can’t remember her PIN or passwords and she’s forced to create new ones. Yev isn’t bothered—another customer has arrived and he’s busy at the counter—but she can feel the irritation radiating from Martin, forced to waste his precious time waiting for her to set up her phone.
Finally, she’s done and Yev is back with them. ‘Right. Now, can you go to the App Store and download WhatsApp? We need to be able to communicate safely.’
‘Why WhatsApp?’ asks Mandy.
‘End-to-end encryption,’ says Martin. ‘Good idea.’
But nothing is simple. Now Mandy has to replace her old password for the App Store. It’s another ten minutes before she’s good to go.
‘One more,’ says Yev. ‘Give me your phones.’
‘What is it?’ asks Martin.
‘I’m installing a tracking app, also encrypted. It will let each of us see where the others are at any given time.’
‘Why would we need that?’ asks Martin.
‘Insurance,’ says Mandy, attracting an annoyed glare from him.
It’s only after the phones are set up again that Yev smiles and says, ‘Okay, now we’ve finished with the boring stuff, what else did you want help with?’
Martin is about to answer when his phone rings.
‘Martin Scarsden.’ He listens for a moment before speaking again. ‘Yes, sorry, my phone was out of action. I’ll see you shortly.’ And then to Mandy and Yev: ‘A contact. I’ll have to leave soon.’
‘Who is it?’ Mandy asks.
‘I’ll tell you later.’ There’s an edge to his voice.
‘So what are Yev and I doing?’ she asks him, trying to keep the hurt from her voice.
Martin addresses Yev, practically ignoring her. ‘Last time I was here, I told you that a former editor of the Sydney Morning Herald, Max Fuller, was murdered. We’re trying to find out who did it and why.’
Yev looks at Martin steadily. ‘I get it.’
‘Like I said on Wednesday, his laptop went missing when he was killed. He had another computer at the Herald, but he wiped that himself. He was writing the story for a news magazine called This Month. You’ve heard of it?’
‘I’ve heard of it; haven’t read it.’
‘Okay. You suggested Max might have backed up some of his material onto the cloud. I’ve got his details here.’ Martin hands Yev a piece of paper. ‘This is the site, his username and passwords.’
‘Where did you get them?’ Mandy asks, frustrated at being left out.
Martin responds, voice even. ‘The site address from Wellington Smith—it’s the same one I use for the books—and the passwords from Eileen Fuller. She emailed them through this morning.’
Yev is looking at the paper, frowning. ‘Why do you need my help? This should be straightforward.’
‘It’s not. I tried. The files seem to be protected by more than passwords.’
Yev raises his eyebrows, then smiles. ‘Okay. I like a challenge.’
‘Sorry. I really need to go,’ says Martin.
‘Leave it with me,’ says Yev.
‘I’ll let you know if we find anything,’ Mandy adds.
‘Right. Well, see you soon.’
She reaches out, brushes his hand. ‘Take care.’
‘You too.’
She bites her lip, watching him go, aware a gap has opened between them, unsure what to do about it.
chapter thirty-one
The smoke is getting worse, the unmoving air a gentle apocalypse. He walks through a city grown hazy, the light muted and tangerine, the buildings fading away into vague outlines, their substance questionable, people moving along the footpaths like wraiths. He’s making his way down Albion Street, towards the agreed rendezvous, when a white SUV pulls in, horn voicing a brief toot. The windows are tinted; the one on the passenger side slides down. ‘Martin. Jump in.’ It’s Jack Goffing, the ASIO officer, behind the wheel.
Martin climbs in, is surprised to see a woman in the back seat.
‘Jack?’
Goffing pulls away from the kerb. ‘Let me find a park, then we can talk.’
The ASIO agent picks an underground parking garage, seemingly at random. He descends a floor before pulling into a vacant space. It’s extremely narrow: it takes two or three goes to get a perfect fit. He cuts the engine.
‘Martin, this is Griff. Not her real name.’
‘Good to meet you, Griff. Martin Scarsden. My real name.’
‘So I believe,’ says the woman quietly. She has a stocky build, in her fifties, grey hair cut short. Her nose is flattened and crooked, as if she’s been a boxer.
‘What’s going on, Jack? This is very cloak-and-dagger.’
‘It is. But I don’t want to take any risks. This is dangerous shit.’
‘What can you tell me?’ asks Martin.
‘First, everything we tell you here is strictly off-the-record. It cannot be published unless we give you the all clear. You got that? Under no circumstances.’
Martin sighs; the same old story. ‘If that’s what it takes.’
‘The Director General has authorised me to poke my nose
